


Ficlet Cemetery

by sunken_standard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Crack, F/M, Fluff, multiple AUs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2018-10-31 14:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 83
Words: 107,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10901337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: Where all my ficlets are now going to go to die.





	1. First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This one is from the first day of the Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017 on Tumblr, 'first meeting.'

*****

 

"Here you go," Mike Stamford said, good-natured smile never leaving his face. He handed Sherlock the hospital-issue scrubs before leaving him in the Men's locker room.

 

Thankfully, his suit wasn't ruined, only soaked through with pyridine; a good dry-cleaning and it would be fine. He ducked into the shower to get the worst of the scent off his skin before putting on the scrubs, hateful as they were. Better than going home in just a coat and shoes in January, he supposed, especially since he wasn't keen on getting arrested.

 

He was on his way back to the lab to get his coat, his suit stuffed in a bin liner inside a gym bag he'd borrowed from the Lost & Found, when he was stopped just outside the mortuary by a woman in full surgical kit.

 

"Are you Ted? I'm Dr. Hooper. If, ah, if you'd just like to stow that in the corner, we can get started. Sorry to rush you, I know you're probably late for a reason, but we're on a bit of a schedule for this one," the woman said, extending her hand.

 

New medical examiner, then; first day on the job. Not a London native, single and thinking of getting a cat, frugal, coffee drinker. Hard to tell much else because of the kit she had on.

 

She thought he was an assistant. He would correct her, but an opportunity like this was rare; no one ever let him actively participate in a postmortem and most of them chased him off when he tried to observe.

 

He took her hand and shook it, affecting an apologetic smile. "Sorry, sorry, my cat got out on me and he's old and my flat doesn't have a cat flap, I just couldn't bear the thought of him being out all day in this weather," he rushed out.

 

"It's fine, things happen," she said, ponytail swishing as she turned abruptly and held the door open for him.

 

He ducked into the mortuary and dropped his bag in the far corner by one of the cabinets, then went over to where she was digging out another set of protective gear for him to wear.

 

"I'm new, too. First days are always a bit rough," she said. "I suppose we'll just muddle through together."

 

She had a bright smile, he thought. Mike probably hired her for her personality, as it seemed to align with his own.

 

Once he was suited up, he followed her to the body; she must have already done all the trace collection and removed the clothing. No lollygagging; professional.

 

She turned on the recorder above the cadaver and noted the time, then continued making observations from where she'd obviously left off before he'd arrived. She had keen eyes.

 

"I need the calipers and a picture of this," she said, pointing to a laceration on the corpse's face. She made a mark on her chart.

 

"Oh, right," he said, caught up in seeing someone else do what he did, albeit in a more methodical, less intuitive manner. It was almost hypnotic, like watching someone rake sand in a Zen garden. If she was annoyed by his lack of attention, she didn't show it. Not an egomaniac, either.

 

She continued to point out injuries and old scars and tattoos, narrating as he photographed them; it was rather fascinating.

 

"Alright, let's roll him on three. One, two, three," she counted quickly, more like a Casualty doctor than any other medical examiner he'd seen. He wondered if she'd changed her career path at some point; he'd really like to find out.

 

He was surprised at her physical strength; she couldn't weigh more than eight and a half stone soaking wet and only came up to his shoulder. She continued cataloguing and they rolled the body again; he was so taken with the paradox she presented that he barely paid attention to what she was doing.

 

Time seemed to fly by as she moved through the x-rays, fluid samples, orifice examinations, and Y-incision; most of what he was observing wouldn't have a direct impact on his work, but it was interesting nonetheless.

 

She was just beginning to saw through the ribs when the doors to the morgue squealed open and Stamford came hustling in. "Molly, I'm sorry this is taking so long, we're still working on getting someone else i—Sherlock? What are you doing? I thought you went home ages ago."

 

Dr. Hooper, _Molly_ , looked between him and Stamford, the bone saw casually dangling in her hand.

 

Being caught out, he did what came natural in those situations. He smiled. "Sherlock Holmes," he said cheerily, offering his hand over the open torso.

 

"Oh," she said, a mixture of confusion and embarrassment doing odd things to her face. "You don't look at all like Richmond."

 

"I'm sorry?" he asked politely, wondering what she was talking about.

 

Her eyes went wide and her mouth opened as she had the realization she'd blurted something she shouldn't have; her bloody hand flew to cover her lips automatically but she stopped millimetres short of actually making contact, a fleeting look of disgust crossing her face at the thought of what she'd almost done. His smile went from fake charm to real as he bit down on the urge to laugh. Dr. Molly Hooper was not boring.

 

"Just, ah, someone said you reminded them of Richmond from _The I.T. Crowd_ ," she winced. Obviously an unfavourable comparison. Not the first. Annoying, that she'd been warned about him in some capacity, though.

 

"Ah," he nodded once, shortly, unwilling to give away his ignorance of whatever pop culture thing 'Richmond' belonged to.

 

"Sorry," she winced, probably thinking she'd insulted him.

 

He opened his mouth to reassure her that it was fine, people said a lot of things about him or something along those lines; instead he said the strangest thing. "I could... keep assisting Dr. Hooper if no one is immediately available," he offered.

 

She looked uncertainly between him and Stamford. Stamford didn't deliberate, just chuckled and threw his hands in the air in a kind of 'whatever, this place is a zoo I have no control over but I'm going to ride it out until I can collect my pension' gesture before backing out the doors.

 

"Okay," Dr. Hooper said, half to him and half to herself. "You could have, ah, said something earlier."

 

"I could have," he agreed, then turned on the charm again. Just a bit, nothing over the top. "Wouldn't have been nearly as interesting though, would it?"

 

She smiled at him, bright and a little mischievous. "You can call me Molly, by the way."

 

"Molly," he said, trying it out.

 

_Yes_ , he thought. _This could actually work out rather well_.

 


	2. First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017 Day 2: First Date
> 
> It's fluffy and cutesy, but it can't be all sturm und drang all the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ficlet #2. There's going to be a full week of these, so if you're interested and don't follow me on tumblr (sunken-standard over there), subscribe so you'll get notifications when I add a new one. Even after the week is over, I'm going to use this as a catch-all for things that have no other home.

*

 

"Sherlock? What are you doing here? Do you have another case already?" Molly asked, setting her bag on the lab table. He'd only left a few hours before.

 

"Nope. John has a date and I'm not to return to the flat until two at the earliest, which, I have to say, is highly optimistic of him considering the length of his shower this morning." He went back to looking at whatever slide he had in the microscope.

 

"Ah. More than I really needed, or um, actually wanted to know, but okay. I forgot m--"

 

"Cardigan," he said, holding it up without looking away from the microscope; he'd had it on the stool next to him for whatever reason.

 

"Laundry night. The fun never ends when you're thirty-one and still single," she tittered, then felt like an idiot. Why did she say she was single? He quite obviously knew that and couldn't be less interested.

 

"I suppose eating cold Chinese takeaway out of the carton while standing over the sink in just your underwear holds its own appeal as a way to spend a Friday evening. Certainly more than being subjected to the sounds of your flatmate's date getting shagged through the mattress to Motown's Greatest Hits Volume Two."

 

"Sometimes I use a plate," she defended, wondering how the hell he knew that about her. Really, by this point she knew she shouldn't even bother wondering. "And, ah, that's more that I didn't need or want to know."

 

"More than any of us needed or wanted to know, and yet, here we are," he said in that bouncy-chirpy-sarcastic way of his.

 

They lapsed into silence. "Well, I ah, suppose I'll leave you to it, then," she said, moving around the back of his stool to collect her cardigan.

 

"Why are you going so soon?" he asked, actually sounding put out. Like he wanted her to stay. "I'm not finished with that yet."

 

Yeah, it was too much to hope for.

 

"What were you doing with my cardigan?" she asked slowly.

 

"Going over it for trace evidence. I like to keep my skills sharp."

 

"Ah." What else could she say?

 

"Whoever asked you out yesterday is either going prematurely grey or is older than you think he is. Probably better you give that one a wide berth either way, never ends well."

 

"Wonderful," she said.

 

He glanced at her, his eyes flicking over her before he made a little noise of assent or dismissal, she didn't know which. She realized that she was actually well within his personal space, not even a foot between them. She should probably get out of there before she said or did something stupid.

 

"Are you, ah, hungry? It's just, I haven't had dinner yet and if I'm going to be staying... I know you said you don't eat when you're working, but since you're not on a case... I could, um, pop out to the vending machine and get something." Yep, that was the something stupid.

 

"I was actually going to go and grab something when I got finished here," he said. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "There's a nice Italian place on Northumberland Street. I got the owner off a murder charge."

 

"Sounds nice," she said, trying for interested and engaged, but coming off a bit bland. She didn't know why he was telling her, to be honest.

 

"Good. I'll be finished in ten minutes and then we can go."

 

"Um... we?" He probably just meant he'll leave and she can shut off the lights behind him.

 

"Yes...?" He drew the word into a question.

 

"Go?"

 

"Yes." He said it shortly, like a confirmation; no clarification was forthcoming, apparently.

 

"For dinner?" Hope springs eternal.

 

"Are you having a blood sugar issue? Maybe you should have one of the mints you keep in your bag," he said. "Really, you could stand to eat more than a packet of Wotsits for lunch."

 

 _I would have, but I spent my lunch hour helping you_ , she thought, a little annoyed.

 

"So, ah, what's the name of the place?" she asked, thinking if she asked him enough questions she could figure out if he actually meant he wanted her to go with him. Because that's what it sounded like, but Sherlock wasn't like other people.

 

"Angelo's."

 

"Oh! That's where you and John went during the, ah, case with the case... A Study in Pink?"

 

"Oh, for—does _everyone_ read his blog?"

 

 _Well, yes, but not because I'm stalking you in a creepy way or anything_ , she thought.

 

"It's interesting. What you do, I mean."

 

"I have a blog too, you know," he sniffed, annoyed.

 

"Mm," she nodded, too enthusiastically. "I've read it."

 

"What do you think?" He held very still, looking at her from the corner of his eye again.

 

"Well, ah, some of your links are broken and there's a lot of 'notes to be added.' But what's there is interesting," she said diplomatically. Really, it was more of a trainwreck than her own attempt at blogging.

 

He grunted. "Really should update those," he said, more to himself than anything.

 

"Oh, and you deleted the thing about cigarette ash."

 

"I've been reliably informed that it was boring," he mumbled.

 

"And your forum section doesn't seem to work at all."

 

"Yes, well," he cleared his throat and sat up straighter. "I'm thinking pasta, what are you thinking? I'd stay away from the veal, unless you want to spend the rest of the weekend recovering," he said quickly, standing and twirling on his coat in one smooth movement.

 

Oh. So he did mean he wanted her to go to dinner with him.

 

Well, wasn't that a turn-up.

 

It wasn't a date, was it? No, probably not. He'd made it pretty clear months ago that he wasn't interested in her like that, after she'd asked him out. He probably just didn't want to eat alone. Which was okay, because she didn't really want to go home and do laundry and eat cold Chinese while her hellbeast cat ignored her in favour of doing his damnedest to make sure she never got the deposit back on her flat.

 

"That was a quick ten minutes," she said. She hoped he wasn't like that in bed.

 

...And that was not something she should think, lest she say it out loud. She pursed her lips and tried to make herself look innocent, like she hadn't just been thinking about shagging him, or that he might be miserable at it. Maybe she _was_ having a blood sugar issue.

 

"You stayed up too late Sunday night and slept in Monday morning; you either overslept again Tuesday morning or, more likely, forgot to go grocery shopping the evening before so you had a salad for lunch from the canteen. You had three postmortems Wednesday, one of which was in an advanced state of decomposition—undiscovered shut-in, nothing interesting. You stayed up too late again Wednesday night—it's not a boyfriend keeping you up, so it's either telly or a book; signs of eye strain make book more likely—and drank two extra cups of coffee Thursday to compensate. Mr. Hairdye, probably a lab supply company rep, asked you out in the late afternoon. You wondered earlier if you might be coming down with something because you didn't need to wear your cardigan—fairly certain someone turned the thermostat up as it was quite warm in here today, so you're probably fine—and you were distracted by a last-minute email before you left for the evening, which is why you forgot to take it home. That about covers it?" he rattled off, tying his scarf and buttoning his coat.

 

She was always a little in awe of what he did and how fast he did it, even if it served to highlight just how mundane her life really was.

 

"Actually, Tuesday I had tacos from the canteen. The meat was a little iffy, though, so I scraped it off and didn't eat it."

 

He grimaced. "Always something."

 

"Taco Tuesday didn't live up to the hype," she agreed.

 

"Mm," he acknowledged, then set off out the door, expecting her to follow.

 

*

 

Angelo's was nice, she thought. Cosy, more like a family place than some kind of hip, trendy spot or insufferably posh. She was coming to realize that, insufferably posh as Sherlock himself certainly was, he valued comfort and familiarity over appearances. She liked that about him.

 

The restaurant was busy, but they managed a tiny table in the back just next to the kitchen. Sherlock's knees bumped against hers every time he moved. The owner apologized and Sherlock was nothing but grace and charm, saying he should have phoned ahead and thanking him for squeezing them in. What was more, she was fairly certain it wasn't an act.

 

The waiter brought wine to the table, even though they hadn't ordered anything; Sherlock asked after his mother (well, more like made an observation and had it confirmed), who'd apparently been in hospital, then smiled with genuine warmth when the boy (young man, really; university age) mentioned his night classes for software engineering.

 

"I helped him get the job," Sherlock explained after the waiter had left. "Met him on a case, low-level drug dealer. Seemed a waste of his talents. He's actually quite mathematically inclined."

 

"That's really nice of you," Molly said. "Most people wouldn't trouble themselves."

 

Sherlock looked away, almost... bashfully? Embarrassed. Flattered. "Yes, well, everyone deserves an opportunity," he said gruffly, picking up his menu and very deliberately reading it.

 

Molly felt a pang of longing and a flutter of admiration; she really had it bad. _Down girl_ , she told herself, taking a fortifying sip of wine. She picked up her menu, since she should probably look at it.

 

"So, um, what's good here?" she asked, browsing the specials page. The prices were reasonable and the descriptions simple, nothing of that faux-authenticity nonsense that the snootier places did. If the food was good, she'd have to come back sometime.

 

"Mostly everything besides the veal. The fish tends to be a bit overcooked sometimes, hit or miss. I'm going to go with miss tonight," he said, his tone automatic, as though he were preoccupied.

 

"Mm," she acknowledged. She supposed she'd go with the ravioli, since they had red wine already and she was trying to avoid any faux pas.

 

The waiter came back and they ordered; Sherlock got the same thing as she did. It wasn't a sign, she told herself, just a coincidence. And, if he liked it, it was probably good, so she had nothing to worry about. She was a little surprised he hadn't ordered off-menu; he seemed to be the type.

 

Sherlock sipped his wine and sat the glass back down. "Did you finish the tox screen from the OD last Thursday?" he asked conversationally.

 

"Mm," she nodded into her own wineglass. "It was ketamine and MSG. She had an allergy."

 

"Amateurs," he dismissed.

 

"They do look a lot alike," she said, feeling like she had to defend the girl, even if she hadn't known her. Just another tragedy, they all were, but that didn't mean they deserved it. "A kid like her wouldn't know the difference."

 

"I meant the suppliers. Cutting product indicates they have no understanding of the business side of things. Dead customers aren't exactly repeat customers, are they?"

 

She conceded with a tip of her head; he did have a point. Not the one she was expecting, but still a point. "It's like no one takes pride in their work these days," she said lightly, trying to keep her lips from twisting into a smile. She was pants at deadpan delivery, the urge to laugh at herself always ruining it.

 

Sherlock drew back and squinted at her from one eye, obviously unsure if she was making a joke or channelling her inner Tory.

 

 _So much for humour_ , she thought, looking around to the the tables next to them because God, she was a tit. She hoped the food got there soon, even though they'd just ordered. "So, ah, how did your saliva coagulation experiment go?"

 

"Not enough data. I'll need another head, but not this week. There's always an uptick in clients immediately following Valentine's Day. Dull, predictable, but infidelity does pay the bills," he said, his eyebrows high and eyes wide, like he was still in awe of how utterly boring adulthood was. She could relate.

 

"I can only imagine," she said, thinking of the myriad horror stories she'd heard from girlfriends over the years as well as her own. "How, ah, how long have you been doing this, anyway? I mean, it's um, not really something with the standard trajectory of a career like mine, is it?"

 

"Fffive-ish? years," he answered, a bit more cagey than she was expecting. "I solved cases for people before that, but I didn't start charging until then. Even now I mostly prefer to work in trade. Favours come in handy."

 

She nodded to show her interest; she'd only known him a few months but he'd never spoken so openly about himself before. Then again, she'd never really asked a lot, either. He was usually busy with whatever he was working on at the time, anyway, so his answers tended to be short.

 

The conversation continued until the food came and throughout the meal; it was easy and normal and she didn't feel tongue-tied or weird at all. That, she supposed, was how she knew it wasn't a date. Most of it was about work, anyway, so it was really more like two colleagues out for a meal.

 

Actually, it wasn't like that. Even her colleagues didn't really discuss work over meals, mostly because there was always at least one non-pathologist present and it tended to put them off. Sherlock didn't mind any of the details, and the ambient noise in the restaurant was loud enough that she wasn't afraid of other diners overhearing. It was relaxing, actually.

 

The only small moment of awkwardness was at the end of the meal when she brought up splitting the bill; Sherlock insisted it was fine, he had a tab that he settled monthly and it was the least he could do in exchange for all the body parts she provided him with. That got them a few looks, as he was standing to put his coat on when he said it and his voice did carry. They probably thought he was referring to sex and not _actual_ body parts and she wasn't sure what would be worse.

 

Outside, he looked at his watch and groaned. "It's not even ten-thirty. Honestly, it's all very simple, how long could it possibly take? Two o'clock," he scoffed.

 

_Well, if that's how he thinks of sex... Maybe that ten-minute thing was closer to the mark than I thought. Stop thinking about shagging him._

 

"Fancy a walk? Unless you've got to go and feed your cat, or walk it, or whatever it is people do with cats, I don't know," he said, leaning back on his heels.

 

"He's fine. I always leave out three days of food just in case I end up in hospital because a piano falls on me or I get taken hostage in a bank robbery or something. And he drinks from the toilet, so he's always got water."

 

"You let your cat drink from the toilet," he said, giving her a look.

 

"I'm trying to toilet train him. I bought a book on it."

 

Sherlock laughed. Honest-to-God laughed.

 

Christ was he gorgeous. She'd only seen him actually smile at something that amused him a handful of times, and she'd just made him _laugh_ , even though she hadn't been trying.

 

"You're trying to toilet train your cat?" he asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Oh hell, even his teeth were cute.

 

"Litter boxes are a hassle and I can't let him out all day while I'm at work," she defended.

 

"Is it working?"

 

"Well, no, but it's a process."

 

Sherlock started to walk down the pavement, still smiling. Molly hefted her bag on her shoulder and followed after him.

 

Their breath fogged as they strolled along the Embankment; she expected Sherlock to keep up a running commentary of deductions of all the people they passed, but instead he started talking about the history of the Embankment's construction. She was a bit surprised; she didn't think he'd be the type to care about that sort of thing.

 

They stopped to sit on a bench across from Temple Station.

 

"This was the first street in Britain to be permanently lit with electricity. 1878," he said, looking toward the Eye. He sat back against the bench, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his face half hidden by his upturned coat collar.

 

"Hard to imagine that it was so long ago, but really nothing compared to the rest of human history," she said.

 

He made a noise of agreement; they both lapsed into a contemplative, companionable silence.

 

She liked him. More than just fancied him; she really liked everything about him. It made her a little sad to think that she'd probably never find someone half as good as him, someone she felt such a strong connection to. Wasn't that always the way, though?

 

"I know it's still early, but I probably should be getting back," she said after a few minutes. She was tired, and not just from her unexpectedly long day.

 

She stood; Sherlock remained seated. He looked a bit sad, too. Lonely. She wondered if her mood was somehow affecting him. She doubted it. He probably just didn't want to have to kill more time alone before going back to his flat. It was only just gone eleven.

 

"Thank you for dinner," she said, her tone softer than she'd intended. Now wasn't the time to turn into some blushing, stammering idiot.

 

"You're welcome."

 

"I'll, ah, be seeing you," she said, feeling the awkwardness that had been missing all night finally creeping in.

 

"Mm," he nodded, not meeting her eyes. It was a little weird, how he'd pulled back into himself like that, closed himself off.

 

She paused just a second longer, wanting to ask him if he wanted to talk about it. She thought better of it; she didn't want to spoil what had been such a nice night. She left, clamping down on the urge to glance back as she walked away.

 

*

 

Sherlock looked out over the river. He'd had a lovely evening with Molly, which had ended up more troubling than anything. He liked her. Quite a bit. More than he should, more than he had any right to.

 

He really hadn't meant for it to be a date. It was only supposed to be a meal, someone to pass the time with while he was exiled from his own flat. So why was he so disappointed now that it was over?

 

 _Not your area_ , he told himself forcefully. Relationships were more trouble than they were worth and they never ended well (and they always ended, one way or another).

 

He supposed he had a what-if now, something he could think about when things were particularly bleak. A fantasy he could bury himself in now that drugs were permanently off the table. Probably not a good idea, but the best things never were.

 

 


	3. First Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017, Day 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by madder_badder. This one is just a tiny one, so I've got a bonus cut scene from a fic for 2012 I never finished in the next chapter, if it's not enough angst for you.

*****

 

He hates that he can barely remember the first time Molly Hooper kissed him. He knows it was the day after the night he'd come back from death the second time, Molly once again saving him; he knows she'd been holding his hand for hours as he drifted in and out of consciousness. She waited until one of his more lucid moments to leave, probably so he would know she hadn't just abandoned him.

 

He remembers that his lips were dry to the point of cracking and she'd put lip salve on them from the tube in her handbag, cocoa butter and mint. An indirect kiss. Not the first time his lips had touched something hers had recently, sometimes he drank out of her coffee mug in the lab when he was too lazy to go and get his own and didn't want to ask her to make some. The way she fixed it (too strong, not enough sugar) had grown on him.

 

He remembers that she kissed the back of his hand sometime before that, too.

 

He remembers that before she left that first day, she leaned in to kiss his cheek, something she'd never done before, and he remembers that he'd turned his face just enough that she'd kissed his lips instead.

 

He only remembers that it was soft and quick and she started to apologize for it, but stopped herself when he closed his eyes. He wonders why she stopped, but not enough to over-examine it. Did he smile? He might have smiled.

 

He doesn't remember much besides the taste of the lip salve and the fact that it happened; he doesn't remember the scent of her or the feel of her lips or the way her face felt when it was so close to his. The entire experience is like watching a movie, devoid of sense memory.

 

He knows he ruined things years ago, that Christmas that he never got to properly make up for because too much else had happened; even if she ever had romantic feelings towards him again, she would never cross that line. Once bitten, twice shy.

 

He knows that she's not in a good place right now, her year-plus relationship ( _engagement_ ; the very thought of which is distasteful) ending. She's vulnerable and will later regret any decisions she makes in regards to romance or sex for the next few months.

 

He hates how the timing is never right. He hates how it always feels like he'll never catch up to her or that she's dropped out of the race entirely; for once he feels like he's too far ahead of her and he has to run backwards just to keep her in his sights. One can only do that for so long before one trips and falls flat on one's arse.

 

He has all the time in the world now to sit and think and devise infinite scenarios to make her do it again. It may be the sweet haze of morphine making him so sentimental, but he doesn't care. He got a taste, finally, and he wants so much more.

 

*

 

**Bonus flashfic inspired by Mistykins06 from the comments below (anything goes around here!):**

  
  


It was just a slip. Awkward little things like that happen all the time. She'd kissed her first boss's wife full on the mouth once at an NHS picnic, both going in the same direction for a continental peck on the cheek and planting one on her; she still cringes to think about it.

  
  


He was drugged and uncoordinated; he overcompensated while trying to return the gesture or simply turned his head out of instinct.

  
  


The smile, though... That's harder to explain away. Sure, he was blissed out on enough morphine to kill him if he'd still been clean (and that is not a road she's going down because he almost _died_ and anger is not the appropriate response right now), but that wasn't a watered down version of the too-toothy, too-wide smile of someone trying to make a polite, _everything's normal, that wasn't weird_ face through the haze of drugs, nor was it a bland, vacuous dismissal. That had been a smile of contentment. She knows all the faces Sherlock makes, and that was a tired, slack version of _oh I love when all the pieces fit together and I can tie it up with a bow_ or _ah, nothing is better than a cigarette on a cold morning_.

  
  


She isn't going to let it mean anything. She can't, for her own sanity's sake, especially considering she's free again after a year of trying to pretend she finally had the thing in life she's always wanted, the last missing piece in the jigsaw (and if she'd had to bend it and pound it and bite off some of the corners to make it fit, she was going to make it fit, goddamn it, until the whole thing buckled and threatened to snap apart); it's not even something she can consider considering.

  
  


Sherlock is Sherlock and remains out of bounds; the status remains quo (no matter that quo kind of forgot what it was the day he breezed back into her life and acted like they'd always been something more).

  
  


She doesn't stop herself from pressing her lips together before darting her tongue out to taste the remnants of the lip salve. His lips tasted like her lips and she felt a bit like being fifteen again, blushing and googly-eyed over a kiss from a boy.

  
  


She thinks maybe she'll buy him his own tube of lip salve, same flavor; hospital air is awfully dry. He probably won't remember anything about it, anyway.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. ;)


	4. Unpublished Fic Scene: First Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scene from a post-TRF fic from 2012 that I never finished (the characterization was bad; there was a lot to dislike). Posted as a bonus for Sherlolly Appreciation Week Day 3: First Kiss, since my actual post was very short and unsatisfying (there's a dick joke in that somewhere, but I'm too lazy to look for it).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd and unBrit-picked. Might be some tense mistakes, since I was still training my brain to write in present tense at the time.

*

 

19 January 2013

 

It occurs to her much later (after she's cried and paced and tried to find a way of getting in touch with Mycroft without dragging Greg into it because she's afraid Sherlock is in the kind of state where he might _do_ something) that, for all intents and purposes, they'd had a domestic and he'd broken up with her.

 

She'd laugh, if she had it in her.

 

He'd called her a bitch. She doesn't think Sherlock had ever used that word before by the way he'd hesitated before saying it. She'd reduced him from his usual eloquence to profanity, and if she had a vindictive nature she'd revel in that, but as it is, it just makes her feel a little cold and hollow inside.

 

At 1:30, she gets a text. It's not a blocked number, there's no information at all.

 

**Peter Pan Statue, Kensington Gardens. Collect him. Now.**

 

It takes her twenty minutes to get there. The moon is full and the night is cloudless and bitterly cold. No one is supposed to be there after dark and it feels like she's in a different world as she trots down the path. Sherlock will hear her coming and he'll leave if he wants to, if he hasn't already.

 

She rounds a bend and sees his dark silhouette leaning against the railing. The end of a cigarette flares orange and dims. He ignores her as she mirrors his position at the railing.

 

He's waiting for her to speak.

 

"I never liked Wendy," she says. She expects him to cut her off with an exasperated warning in the form of her name.

 

When he doesn't, she continues, "I thought she was stupid for wanting to be the mother when the boys were having adventures."

 

She doesn't tell him the other reason she'd hated Wendy as a child. It hadn't made sense to her that Wendy was in love with Peter even though he'd never grow up or love her in return; it wasn't _fair_. Though Sherlock was mostly clueless as to emotional things, she doesn't think the irony would be lost on him.

 

"I thought Peter was stupid for not wanting to grow up. Being a child is dreadful," he says without looking at her.

 

Molly is struck with the odd thought that if they had been children together, maybe neither of them would have been so lonely. She knows she shouldn't presume, but it's plain as day that deep down, he had been an isolated, frustrated child. He still is, in so many ways.

 

She should apologize, but she doesn't know how to without starting another row. She's still upset with him, and everything she'd said was more or less the truth. Really though, all of it was more her problem than his. She knew what he was like. She couldn't expect him to change.

 

He takes another drag from his cigarette. "Mycroft sent you," he says, exhaling smoke into the cold night air.

 

She can't deny it outright, so she doesn't. "He sent me a text. I could have ignored it."

 

"Hn," he grunts, tapping the cigarette with his forefinger. She follows it with her eyes as he brings it to his mouth. He pauses before he takes a drag. "Why didn't you?"

 

He's fishing, there's no doubt about it. He wants her to tell him it's okay, he's forgiven, everything is fine. She's tired of being his Wendy, though.

 

"Why didn't you leave when you heard me coming down the path?" she challenges.

 

He doesn't answer her.

 

"You can do better than Lestrade," he says finally. He seems almost... annoyed? Then again, he would be, if his criticism of Greg's marriage was anything to go by. She'd warn a friend of the same thing, albeit in a nicer way, if she thought she'd be keeping them from getting hurt.

 

"That's still not up to you to decide," she says, but not unkindly. She needs him to understand this, to finally establish a boundary in this aspect of their relationship; it's something she should have done a long time ago.

 

His eyes dart to her, then quickly away. "What if I've changed my mind?"

 

"About what?" She doesn't know, but she gets a nervous flutter in her stomach.

 

"About you. What you want from me."

 

"What- what do you mean?"

 

He makes a frustrated noise and pitches his cigarette off to the side while turning to face her. Time slows down when he slides his hand along her jaw, tilting her head up just so. He bends forward and kisses her.

 

It's soft, almost tentative, but there's a kind of firm resolve in the press of his lips and she thinks she's going to die. She's too shocked to kiss back, but he's still there, insistent, and her instincts finally take over and she returns the kiss just as softly.

 

And then she remembers Mycroft's speech from Christmas.

 

Oh god. No.

 

No. And yet, she'd fallen for it.

 

She reaches out and pushes him weakly away, tuning her head to the side. Her eyes had fallen closed during the kiss; she squeezes them tighter against the pressure in the bridge of her nose.

 

"Molly?" he asks, sounding genuinely confused. His hand withdraws from her face.

 

"You don't have to do this," she says, crossing her arms over her chest and shrinking in on herself. "I wouldn't leave you. Please don't be this cruel."

 

One hand goes to her mouth, as if to protect it or to stop herself from saying anything else. She opens her eyes and stares at the reflection of the moonlight on the water.

 

He pulls back out of her space and she hadn't realized how warm he was until the cold air rushes in between them. "Cruel? How is this _cruel_? You've wanted me to kiss you since the first day we met," he says, his tone argumentative.

 

He didn't get it. He really didn't get it at all. She'd been living in a fantasy world for the last three years.

 

"Mycroft was right," she whispers to herself.

 

"Mycroft?" He spits the name like a curse. "What _about_ Mycroft?"

 

She shakes her head and exhales heavily.

 

"Molly, what did Mycroft tell you?" His question is both apprehensive and threatening at the same time.

 

"He said..." - _Do it fast, get it over with_ \- "He said you needed to be adored and that you would go to any lengths to keep my attention on you because you don't have anyone else right now."

 

"And you think that's accurate?" Sherlock demands angrily, but she thinks his tone holds a note of genuine hurt. Or she could be reading into it what she wants to; how many times had she done that before?

 

She opens her mouth to deny it, but she can't make herself speak.

 

"Well, I'm glad to know how far the bounds of your affection reach," he says coldly before turning and stalking down the path towards Bayswater Road.

 

*

 

21 January 2013.

 

She is not a teenager. She will get out of bed, shower, and clean her teeth. She will eat something more substantial and nutritive than one half of a single Jammy Dodger. She will bin the pieces of Sherlock's mug that are still sitting in her sink. She will return Greg's texts.

 

She thinks she's made a mistake. She'd spent years observing him from her quiet corners; she knows what he's really feeling when he's wearing any given mask.

 

She'd let the seed of doubt be planted in her mind, and it had taken root and grown and had split everything apart.

 

She hates Mycroft Holmes more than she's ever hated anyone for planting that seed.

 

The worst part is that she's still not sure. The circumstances and the timing make her think that Mycroft was right.

 

But the memory of his lips and the way he'd pulled back after... He hadn't tried to convince her. Unless he'd thought that lying would do him no good. But... It didn't make sense.

 

He hadn't used her feelings to manipulate her in a very long time. Or had he just refined his technique?

 

She doesn't know what she should do or what she wants. Films have made her think she should expect some grand romantic gesture, some sacrifice made by the antagonist to the wronged party to prove his devotion. She smiles a little to herself at the image of Sherlock standing outside her flat with giant boombox serenading her with Peter Gabriel, or sitting across from her on her on a morgue table with a birthday cake, or uttering the phrase 'Nobody puts Molly in a corner'; absurdist humour always cheers her up.

 

She knows that he won't do anything at all. Maybe if he had John around to influence him, he would... Something. Talk to her again, at least, which she realizes is about the best she can hope for.

 

It's not like the kiss necessarily meant anything. Misplaced affection mixed with a bit of vague curiosity, probably. She isn't sure what she could read into it; the sense-memory was already fading from her mind. He'd either been mechanical and disinterested or tentative and inexperienced, she couldn't decide which. She remembers softness and smoke and the cold leather of his glove on her face.

 

She needs to get out of bed. She needs to snap out of it and fix this, because –everything else aside—he does need her. He needs someone to listen and patch him up and be his partner in crime until this is over and his 'one to go' is gone. Molly Hooper's feelings do not matter in the face of someone losing their life, end of.

 

It's raining when she leaves her flat. It's daytime, but she thinks she remembers landmarks well enough to get to where she's going.

 

*

 

There's no one home, but she'd expected as much. Molly settles in on the doorstep to wait.

 

Within fifteen minutes, a black car pulls to the kerb and the same woman as before gets out. "Mr. Holmes sends his regrets for not being able to meet with you in person," she says, then produces an envelope and hands it to Molly. "This should be what you were looking for."

 

Molly nods; she's not going to say thank you. The woman is unconcerned, she simply walks back to the car with her fingers flying over the keyboard of her mobile.

 

Inside the envelope is a key and a hastily-scrawled address on the torn-off corner of a yellow legal pad.

 

*

 

Molly looks up at the building with some trepidation. She can hardly believe that Sherlock is living above a 'gentleman's club' in Brixton. She tries the key in the door; it works.

 

His flat is on the third floor. The corridor smells faintly of old chip fat and urine. The dirty plaster walls are adorned with tags and other forms of graffiti; there are large sections that have chipped away down to the lathing. The lino is cracked and there are a few places where entire tiles are missing.

 

She stands in front of his door (and she knows it's definitely his because she heard his violin from the first floor) and composes herself. She raps on the door and waits. His music gives no indication he's heard, but she's sure he has. She uses the side of her fist and pounds harder.

 

The music stops and he shouts "Piss off!" before starting up again.

 

She's not leaving until he comes out or one of his neighbours chases her off (or stabs her, seems about equally likely). She pounds the door again.

 

The music stops and she hears him stomp over, then two bolts and a security chain being thrown before the door is yanked open.

 

"Wha-" He cuts himself off mid-word and his expression falters from scowling to surprised and then back to scowling even harder.

 

She can tell he's about to slam the door in her face and she doesn't really think before she grabs the edge. It happens in a split second—the door's already moving and her fingers get caught. She shouts and pulls her hand back to cradle it, thinking that nothing's broken but it  _ fucking hurts _ .

 

"Molly, I'm sorry, I didn't—" Sherlock says frantically.

 

"It's okay, it was my fault. Can you just let me in so I can run it under a cold tap, please?"

 

He stands back to let her in and closes the door after her, then guides her with a palm splayed gently on her shoulder to the kitchenette. The flat is a studio and not much bigger than a bedsit. She doesn't really have a chance to look around before he's taking her wrist in one hand and turning on the tap with the other.

 

"Why did you do that?" he asks, then drops her wrist and moves away from her.

 

"All part of my master plan to gain entry to your flat," she says.

 

"Are they broken?" he asks, setting a bag of frozen peas (that she suspects he keeps only for injuries) on the worktop and turning off the tap. He takes her wrist again and inspects the tops of her fingers, red now from the cold water and already starting to bruise.

 

"No," she says.

 

He realizes that he's touching her and he drops her hand, then moves to stand by the door.

 

"Why are you here?" he asks, with just a hint of accusation.

 

Molly slips the tea towel from the handle of the broken cooker and wraps the peas, then places the bundle gingerly on her throbbing fingers.

 

"Because we need to talk. I told you I'd do whatever you needed, and I will. I want to help."

 

"I don't need anything from you," he says nastily.

 

"Maybe not," she shrugs.

 

"Well good, now that _that_ 's sorted," he says. He rests his hand on the doorknob and steps to the side, inclining his head toward the door as he does so. He doesn't actually open it, though.

 

"I'm not leaving until you explain."

 

"What's there to explain? It was a poor judgement on my part and I can promise it will never happen again," he says, glaring at the wall behind her.

 

"So you were trying to manipulate me," she says. She thinks she should feel something other than deeply disappointed, but she doesn't have it in her.

 

"You've already decided that you're more inclined to trust the word of my brother over mine, so what does it matter?" he says snippily, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

"I'm not- I don't trust him more than you. But you can't just go around kissing people because you think—"

 

"You quite obviously don't know what I think."

 

"Then  _tell_ me," Molly pleads. 

 

"Generally, when one is interested in a more intimate relationship they initiate with a kiss, a fact of which—given your considerable experience—I would have thought you'd be aware," he says sarcastically.

 

"Intimate," Molly echoes. "But I thought you didn't, um... You're not interested in people. Like that."

 

"As a rule, no."

 

"I don't... I don't understand. Why now?  _Is_ it because I had dinner with Greg?"

 

"Stop pretending to be so dense, it doesn't suit you."

 

"I'm not 'pretending to be dense'! I just—people don't get what they want in real life, Sherlock," Molly says, sounding a little desperate to her own ears.

 

"People get what they want all the time," he argues. "Besides, I don't want to be your boyfriend."

 

"So what do you want, then? Sex?" she asks bluntly, her cheeks burning from indignant rage and a healthy dose of shame. She does have _some_ self-respect.

 

"I don't know what I want! This," he gestures between them, "is not my area."

 

 _Obviously_ , she thinks cruelly, then is promptly ashamed of her pettiness.

 

"Can you at least tell me why, or what's changed?" she asks, caught somewhere between her treacherous hope and fear that he's going to confirm a very harsh truth.

 

"Nothing's _changed_ ," he says, clearly frustrated. He moves away from the door and paces a few steps in front of it, back and forth as he lays out the facts like a deduction.

 

"You're still fairly intelligent and pathologically altruistic, even if you're unbearably awkward at times. You're objectively physically attractive, if unremarkable—no, not like that, unremarkable in that you don't have one single defining feature conventionally considered to be a hallmark of beauty. You're still the same Molly Hooper I've known for years. There's nothing different about you."

 

He continues, "Nothing in the fundamental make-up of my personality has changed, although it could be argued that my exposure to John has caused me to regard others' emotions in any given interaction. I have a closer bond with John, but I've never felt sexual attraction to him. I've been attracted to women before in a vague, purely aesthetic sense and I've felt affection for other women to varying degrees in a completely non-sexual way. _The_ Woman piqued my curiosity intellectually and sexually, but any interest was replaced by simple, professional respect when I discovered the depths of her disingenuous nature, regardless of the fact that she was undeniably infatuated with me."

 

Molly's heart sinks a little at the mention of another woman, and she thinks back to a year ago, the one he knew from not-her-face. Irene Adler. She'd read about it on John's blog, too, but she hadn't wanted to believe it.

 

"Kissing you was an impulsive decision precipitated by heightened emotions in the face of our... conflict, which had exacerbated any feelings of a... romantic nature I may have been experiencing over the course of our acquaintance."

 

It takes Molly a moment to process. "'Romantic feelings?' But you.." she flounders, gesturing helplessly with hand not covered with the icepack.

 

"Didn't recognize them as such at the time or dismissed them as either fraternal or a simple instinctual response to your blatant sexual interest."

 

Molly leans heavily against the edge of the worktop and lifts the icepack to look at her fingers. She really doesn't know what to think of any of this. She's trying so hard to hold back any kind of hope. This is a fragile moment between them. Whatever she says or does will shape the future for not only herself, but him as well, and it feels like too much responsibility.

 

Mycroft was right in a way, while being so very wrong. She thinks that he has a distorted image of his brother as the sociopathic junkie he's tasked with minding, which may hold some measure of truth, but he doesn't see that Sherlock is susceptible to the same things everyone else is.

 

Or maybe he knows it too well, and he'd seen it before Sherlock had and was trying to protect his brother the only way he knew how, by making her doubt and thereby deterring her if or when Sherlock twigged that he had feelings for her.

 

He's stopped pacing. His posture is ram-rod straight and he's leaning back on his heels like he's trying to put as many inches of extra distance between them as he can without moving from the spot. She thinks his face is the tiniest bit flushed, but that could simply be from the shouting just before. His lips are pressed together and he's got his head turned away from her, but he's watching her from the corner of his eye. There's no artifice or calculation to his expression, she thinks.

 

"Okay," Molly says, setting her jaw.

 

"I just want you to know that this doesn't change anything," she begins. "I'm still your friend and I'm still going to help you however you need and I don't expect anything from you. I just want you to be honest with me, and if it's not working for you, you have to tell me and not... not let me think otherwise."

 

"My work always comes first," he warns.

 

"I know," she says.

 

"I'm not going to change who I am or my behaviour to suit you."

 

"I wouldn't want you to."

 

"You have to trust my word over Mycroft's."

 

"I'm sorry I let him make me doubt you. I won't, ever again," she says.

 

Sherlock eyes her speculatively, then takes a few halting steps in her direction, his hands buried in his pockets. She thinks he's waiting for her to add one of her own caveats or conditions. She doesn't really have any; she'd asked for his honesty, and that's the most important thing to her.

 

Molly sets the icepack aside and moves to stand in front of him. She really can't believe this is happening. She'd focussed on his eyes the whole time, but now, this close, she finds it difficult. The low simmer of nerves she'd had the whole conversation spikes and she almost backs away; this is one of those moments that happens in films and much less frequently in real life. She thinks he's waiting for something, permission or a prompt.

 

"You can, um, kiss me again. If you want," she adds.

 

He takes the last small step forward into her personal space, then hesitates. Molly realizes that it's up to her to close the distance. It feels a little weird to premeditate a kiss like this, but she lays her uninjured hand lightly on his shoulders and leans up.

 

She sees his face angling toward hers but she only registers it as shape and movement, and then his lips are gently touching hers. Instinct and experience guide her response and it starts out as a series of smaller kisses, each one lingering a little longer than the last until it's a continuous slide and press of lips. He's letting her lead, and it's obvious he's never really kissed anyone before, but he's not over-eager like she remembers inexperienced boys being. His hands settle on her upper arms, close to her elbows, and she wonders if he's afraid to rest them at her waist.

 

The angle and the height difference are becoming a bit of a problem though, as is her injured hand, which she holds awkwardly curled to her chest. His mouth follows her when she begins to pull back.

 

"We should um, find somewhere more comfortable," she says quietly. Her voice is a bit breathy to her own ears.

 

"Ah. Right," he replies seriously, straightening. He turns to look behind him, into the living area, and Molly follows his gaze.

 

She hadn't got a proper look at the place; she'd been keeping her eyes on Sherlock the whole time. Calling it a tip would be a kindness, she thinks. There are boxes and books and files everywhere, covering every surface and creating new surfaces for more things to be stacked on top of them. There's a single bed in the far corner, and she thinks the only reason it isn't heaped in junk is because it's right under the only window in the room.

 

Then she notices the wall. If she hadn't been to Baker Street and seen how he worked, she would think it a bit _Silence of the Lambs_. A giant collage of photos and scraps of paper and news clippings connected with different colours of string takes up a six-foot long section.

 

 _He's been busy_ , she thinks idly.

 

His hand grasps her wrist and he gently pulls her across the room, weaving through the detritus on the floor. He stops in front of the bed and fixes the covers, heaped and twisted in the centre of the mattress from what she'd assume was a fitful night's sleep.

 

She's still wearing her coat, she realizes. She shrugs out of it and Sherlock—in an uncharacteristically gentlemanly fashion—takes it from her and moves back toward the door to hang it up. She sits on the bed and toes off her shoes, then scoots back and props herself against the wall next to the window. She watches her feet as she wiggles her toes in her socks, wondering what she should expect.

 

The bed creaks with Sherlock's weight as he shuffles up to sit beside her, looking way too solemn for the occasion. She finds it both a comfort and a vindication that he's nervous as well, and with a new-found confidence she reaches out with her bruised right hand to brush a curl from his forehead before leaning in to kiss him again.

 

It's oddly sweet when Sherlock's right hand settles over her left, his thumb caressing hers in a gentle sweep. She thinks that she's going to remember this as the most perfect moment of happiness that she's ever experienced for the rest of her life. She realizes she shouldn't have thought that and waits for one of their phones to ring, or someone to knock on the door, or a freak localized natural disaster like a meteorite hitting the building to happen. When it doesn't, she can't help but giggle at her own silliness.

 

Sherlock draws away and she thinks he looks a bit wary and almost... offended.

 

"This completely mad," she says, grinning.

 

His eyebrows draw together for a second, but then his lips quirk into a smile.

 

"It is, isn't it?" he answers, and Molly pulls him back in for another kiss.

 

With the tension broken, Sherlock seems to finally relax enough to lead the kiss instead of simply mirroring every movement of Molly's mouth over his. He cups her jaw and his tongue sweeps lightly over her bottom lip. She inhales sharply through her nose before angling her head to deepen the kiss, and within a matter of minutes she's pulling him down to lie side-by-side on the bed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (For context, Sherlock was still in London after The Fall and Mycroft had abducted Molly for a chat just before Christmas to warn her Sherlock might try to manipulate her into staying with him [yep, that old chestnut].)


	5. Unpublished Fic Scene: First Kiss II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another scrapped piece, thematically appropriate to Day 3 of the Sherlolly Appreciation Week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I will stop now, I promise. This was going to be the opening scene of porn, but it never happened. Actually, two tries at the same thing, Frankenficced together because close enough. I tried. Unbeta’d.)

*

 

"After they bring me in we have no more than five minutes' window for me to slip out, though I'm assuming any injury would be catastrophic enough to make five minutes rather inadequate."

 

He hesitated; he had more to say and didn't know how to say it.  He was scared, more scared than she'd ever seen anyone, let alone him.

 

And then he reached out, smoothed his hand over the side of her hair.  Leaned in, kissed her.  

 

There was so much sorrow in it. Gratitude.  A plea for reassurance.  And something else; regret, she thought.

 

She was stunned; her lips softened against his and she kissed back, putting every ounce of strength she had left into it, like she could pass it from her mouth to his.

 

He broke the kiss, leaned his forehead against hers.  Breathed her in.

 

"Molly," he said, hushed. "If I die--"

 

"You wo--"

 

"If I die, either today or before I return, you must keep this secret.  Please.  The others can never know.  It's safer that way.  I'm sorry you have to carry this burden for me."

 

"Sherlock—"

 

"Molly, please."

 

"You're coming back," she said, keeping her voice even, firm.

 

He kissed her again like he was stealing one last small thing for himself; straightened.

 

He sniffed, fixed his collar.

 

"I suppose I have to, now," he said lightly, the smile pulling at his mouth a show for her benefit.

 

*

 

Nights like these were the worst.

 

The waiting waiting waiting for a piece to fall into place so he could act; the downtime while he waited for the next thing to happen.

 

Six months so far and he wasn't even close.  He'd be at this for years, at this rate.  

 

He'd thought boarding school had inoculated him against homesickness, but he'd been wrong.

 

He missed all of it so much his teeth ached.

 

He had one tiny promise that got him through, so far.  

 

Just one kiss and he felt like he'd sealed his fate forever.  He certainly hadn't planned it, but she was there and so small and afraid for him, and he was afraid, and some part of him said that it might be his last chance, so he should.  And he did.

 

He wished he could talk to her.  Just hear her voice, soft and breathy like she sometimes got late at night, when she had the overhead lights turned half-off in the lab because her eyes were tired.

 

He wondered if she was holding onto that kiss like a lifeline like he was.  He sincerely doubted it.  She might have feelings for him, but she was still going about her day-to-day, seeing the same faces, going to the same shops, eating the same terrible cafeteria food.  She might even be dating.  For her, a kiss probably didn't mean much.  She'd probably kissed at least a dozen men, maybe more.  God only knew how many had seen her naked.

 

She'd been the only person to ever see him naked.  Not his body, who cared about that, she saw naked people every day at work; she'd seen _him_.  Open, exposed.  He'd never been made so aware of his own vulnerability by another person, and he'd certainly never welcomed that feeling.

 

But with Molly...  There was a sense of relief.  Finally, a safe place.  A warm place.  Someone who wanted to protect the secrets she'd seen as though they were her own.  Some of them were, now, and he wished he hadn't put that terrible burden on her.

 

At the same time, something terrible in him delighted in the covenant it created, a tie that neither of them could sever.  He owned something of hers, now, one of her secrets, and he'd given her his.  

 

In some ways, it was more than any ring or vow.

 

Maybe when this was finished, she would let him try.  He had a debt to repay.


	6. Sherlock's High And There's No Coherent Narrative Or Plot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See title. Set during the end of HLV and TAB, vaguely. A sketch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Sherlolly Apreciation Week 2017 on Tumblr, Day 5: TAB (see my fic [Mental Health Day](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10920210) if you want Day 4) Beta'd by madder_badder.

 

*

 

**Assignment from M. in Eastern Europe, en route. Will phone when I get there. SH**

 

He typed out the text, stared at it. It was for the one person he hadn't said goodbye to. Between his week in prison and the armed guards that oversaw his packing for the trip, he'd had no time to go and see her. He was sure Mary must have at least told her where he'd been, what had happened.

 

He was glad, in a way; if he'd been alone with her he undoubtedly would have made a fool of himself, either crying like a baby or trying some clumsy attempt at seduction, possibly both at the same time. He wouldn't have been able to bear the finality of it. She would have seen it on his face, anyway; unlike John and Mary, she saw his lies for what they were. He couldn't allow that to be her last memory of him.

 

He much preferred their current last memory. He could almost pretend it had been a date, a precursor to something that could never have happened anyway. Christmas shopping at one of those annoyingly twee outdoor markets; he would have hated everything about it if not for her. He'd invited himself along anyway, as he'd had nothing on and John's moping had reached critical mass. She was happy for the company.

 

He paged through snapshots in his mind; the way her eyes sparkled with the cold and her face in profile, softly lit by hundreds of strings of fairy lights, her hands—now in powder blue gloves—wrapped around a paper cup of mulled wine, her nose scrunched with distaste when he pointed out something tacky, playfully suggesting it as a gift for Mary. Her laughing at the dreadful Christmas comedy film that they watched on telly after getting back to her flat. Her eyes, heavy-lidded with wine and warmth and contentment as she relaxed against the arm of the sofa.

 

He'd slept over that night. In her bed, with her. Not the first time, either. It was a big bed. He thought that he'd only have had to roll over and... _something_ , and he could have finally bridged that last bit of space between them. He hadn't been able to do it, though. He'd been too cowardly, too afraid of ruining what they already had.

 

The car rolled onto the tarmac of the airfield; he was starting to feel the tablets kicking in. One of Wiggins's special blends; drugs were like suits, bespoke was well-worth the cost. He deleted the text, typed up a new one.

 

**Happy New Year, Molly Hooper. xxSH**

 

He backspaced, retyped.

 

**Happy New Year, Molly Hooper. SH**

 

Backspaced, retyped again.

 

**Happy New Year, Molly Hooper. xxxSH**

 

His thumb hovered over the 'send' button. Would it be too cruel? Too selfish? Would she think it a joke?

 

"Mr. Holmes," one of Mycroft's faceless suits prompted, standing behind the open car door.

 

The tablets were definitely taking hold. He looked down at his phone; erased the text entirely. He'd go with his original plan and simply call her once he touched down in whatever godforsaken place ending with an -ia he was being shipped off to.

 

He held it together through his goodbyes to John and Mary; tears threatened as the plane took off but he would not let himself cry. He had made a moral choice and he was now paying the cost.

 

He resolved to put it all behind him. Everyone, every last emotion. There would be no place for that where he was going. Molly would be better off thinking he cared so little for her that he hadn't even bothered to tell her of his departure or the reasons behind it. It was better this way. She would be free.

 

He started peaking as the plane took off; the timing was rather good when he had to slip into his Mind Palace to get to the bottom of this newest thing with Moriarty, the drugs lubricating the wheels of imagination, making the scenario more immersive.

 

Even while looking for one answer, another tried to force itself to the fore no matter how much he wanted to put it out of his mind.

 

_Do not forget me._

 

Everything circled back around to Molly, beginning with failing to see her as a woman until it was too late.

 

_You_. The word echoed through his head, over and over. ( _What do you need?_ )

 

He was confronted with the constant war he fought against himself to remain above entanglements, to remain safe, even after Mycroft had said it plainly; it was a war he must lose. John's needling—made worse in the time he was separated from Mary—completely missing the mark as always, but serving to remind him that he was still a man of flesh and blood. With urges.

 

So many urges. They spilled over into everything, sometimes, winding through the mundane and twining around the profane; even his game with Moriarty took on overtones he didn't care to examine, the darkest side of himself he never wanted to explore.

 

A room full of brides, but only one that he wished to stand beside.

 

_Once the idea exists, it cannot be killed._

 

_Do not forget me._

 

And then he was back and already starting to come down; he'd have to talk to Wiggins about the dosage later, should he ever care for this flavour of high again. Not that he would need it.

 

He'd been granted a stay of execution. He wasn't going to waste it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just gotta say: even I think the text kisses are OOC. But he's high and he's trying it out, you know? He's new to having the feels and he thinks he's shuffling off to die, so he wants to do something like normal people do. And he's also high. Did I mention high? It seemed like a good idea at the time.


	7. First I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just what the title says. I continue to try to be clever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017 Day 5: First I love you. Beta read by madder_badder. This one is short and to the point.

*

 

They were walking again; it helped Sherlock to keep moving when he had a craving. He was a month into his recovery, past the most critical point, but Molly continued to spend most evenings at Baker Street anyway. They both needed the company.

 

They stopped at a zebra crossing, breath fogging in the damp February air. They both glanced at the ad on the bus shelter while they waited for the light to turn. It was for chocolate, something red and pink and garishly holiday-themed; the caption read, "There are a thousand million ways to say 'I love you' without ever uttering a word."

 

_Keeping a secret, holding it close even as it struggles to break free, even as the world tries to tear it out_ , Molly thought.

 

_Lying and lying and lying to protect what matters the most, to keep that one thing safe no matter the cost_ , Sherlock thought.

 

_Never giving up, even when it hurts so much not to, even when you have nothing left_ , Molly thought.

 

_Keeping vigilant, keeping it all hidden, even when it's the one thing you want most in the world_ , Sherlock thought.

 

_Sacrifice_ , they both thought.

 

They looked at each other, held each other's gaze; they didn't need words at all. Words would just get in the way.

 

The spell was broken when the pedestrian crossing signal sounded; the moment passed and they set off again.

 

"I could actually go for a Dairy Milk right now," Molly said, amused at herself.

 

"Never underestimate the power of suggestion," Sherlock said, his lips quirking in an answering half-smile.

 

Sherlock led them to a shop; they found a bench nearby to sit and sip their (predictably awful) coffee. By mutual unspoken agreement, they each broke their chocolate bar in half and swapped.

 

_Nine-hundred ninety-nine million, nine-hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine-hundred ninety-six to go_.

 


	8. Free Choice: A Burden Shared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are seven people alive that have seen Molly Hooper cry.
> 
> Her Mother. Her Brother. Her flatmate from her first year at university. One of her lecturers. A stranger on a train that sat with her on the trip up to Northampton when she'd got the call from the hospice nurse. One ex-boyfriend.
> 
> And Mycroft Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017 Day 7: Free Choice. Could be set vaguely in the same universe as the [_So What Was Your Last Girlfriend Like?_](http://archiveofourown.org/series/719403) series (which has another part coming soon). Unbeta'd, I think, because I really don't remember if I sent this or not and I don't think I've touched it since I wrote it, so any mistakes you see are my tired-ass brain being stupid. (I have zero executive functioning.)

 *

 

There are seven people alive that have seen Molly Hooper cry.

 

Her Mother. Her Brother. Her flatmate from her first year at university. One of her lecturers. A stranger on a train that sat with her on the trip up to Northampton when she'd got the call from the hospice nurse. One ex-boyfriend.

 

And Mycroft Holmes.

 

*

 

He'd been hiding on a roof, of all places (he was the British Government, he went where he damn well pleased, Health and Safety regulations didn't apply to him), sneaking a cigarette because he couldn't face Sherlock yet. He couldn't see his brother like that, not again.

 

The access door banged against the brick propping it open; he could easily pick the lock if he had to, but why bother?

 

He prepared himself for threats, for a dressing down; no hospital security peon was going to dictate where _he_ was allowed to go.

 

He turned only to find a familiar face.

 

"Oh," she said stupidly. He was just as surprised as she was, though he didn't let it show.

 

"Quite," he flicked his cigarette, took a drag.

 

She had no use for rules, either. This wasn't her hospital, and yet she'd still sought solitude somewhere forbidden. What did that say about her? Volumes. He'd think more on them later.

 

"He's breathing on his own. They, ah, took the tube out just now, Mary's with him and John's making phone calls," she said, her voice thick.

 

At least there was that, but he wasn't out of the woods yet. Far from it. Even if he recovered fully, there was the long, torturous process of detox and rehabilitation to contend with. Again.

 

"And the prognosis?"

 

"It's um, it early ye—" her breath hitched "—yet, but the bullet missed all the major vessels and they resta—" her face crumpled, but she kept going "—arted his heart before there was a danger of brain damage, but we just have to wait and see," she finished, her voice little more than a croaky whisper.

 

She used the heel of her hand to wipe her cheeks as her body was wracked with a silent sob.

 

He supposed if he had anything left, he would do the same. He was a cold, hollow pit, the ability to grieve for his brother lost years ago, sometime after the first OD but long before the last.

 

He pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and took the four steps necessary to hand it to her.

 

"Thank you," she said, sniffing. "I'm sorry, I'm not like this, I'm not—"

 

"Miss Hooper, I assure you, I have cried for my brother more times than you can possibly imagine." He didn't know why he said it. It was true, of course, but it wasn't something he would admit even under torture. He supposed a sincere woman's tears were their own sort of torture, especially a woman who seemed to share the burden his heart had for so very long. This woman was not the kind to use it against him. She held secrets like they were precious treasures, sacred objects.

 

She nodded, struggling to get herself under control. It was not something he should watch, but he was fascinated by it nonetheless. Women always fought their way through it tooth and nail. 'Weaker sex,' indeed.

 

"I slapped him. It was the last thing I did. I was so angry I thought I could—" she pressed her lips together, looked away. The tears fell freely.

 

"Kill him," Mycroft finished, knowing it well. "I knew this would happen, and yet I was powerless to stop it. Not the bullet, of course, though that was its own inevitability. John's wedding was more than he could handle and I knew he would relapse. I had hoped his reaction had confined itself to trying out a relationship of his own, disastrous as it was sure to be, but optimism has always been a shortcoming of mine."

 

She bristled the tiniest bit at the mention of the girlfriend; she hadn't known. He felt a twinge of genuine sympathy for her. The split-second flash of betrayal in her eyes said everything he needed to know, confirmed a long-held suspicion that he'd never cared enough to investigate because it seemed so hopelessly one-sided so as not to be of consequence. That look was one of a woman scorned, not the bitterness of unrequited love.

 

 _Sherlock, you clumsy child_ , he thought. His propensity to destroy everything he touched bordered on the pathological.

 

His phone vibrated a text in his pocket. He took another drag from his cigarette, tossed it to the pebbled rooftop and snuffed it with his foot while getting his phone out.

 

"My parents have just touched down at London City. I haven't told them yet that Sherlock's been shot. I couldn't bear the thought of them spending the entire flight worrying," he said. He didn't know why he did. She didn't need to know and she was not his shoulder to cry on.

 

"If they're coming straight here I can get him cleaned up a bit more. There's not much I can do, but just combing someone's hair can make all the difference, you know?" She sniffed, twisted the handkerchief in her hands; she seemed disinclined to use it for its intended purpose.

 

She would know, he supposed. Other people's grief was a consequence of her job. That she approached it with such care and attentiveness to afford them dignity (as he'd seen that night years ago) spoke volumes of her character.

 

"I think it best to get them settled first. It won't be any sooner than—" he glanced at his watch "—noon. That should give you ample time."

 

Molly nodded, moving out of the way so he could open the door.

 

He felt like he should say something else, some prescribed nicety, but there was nothing to be said. He gave her what he hoped to be a genuine smile before disappearing down the stairs.

 

*

 

She comes home to grab a few things from her flat, pick up the post, water her plants. She hopes she gets to sleep a little better tonight; Sherlock was up half the night with cramps and chills and cravings, even with the help of medication to take the edge off. It's killing her to see him like this again; she hopes this is the last time, even if she knows it probably won't be.

 

There's a box wrapped like a present on the floor behind her door; a slim thing, about the size of a CD case but a little thicker. The paper is pearly blue and embossed with little diamonds, the ribbon a latte-coloured satin. It looks expensive. There's no card, no indication of the sender.

 

She dumps her bag and the rest of the post on the sofa table and unwraps the box carefully, thinking she probably should have taken a picture or put on gloves in case it's a severed ear or something equally creepy; just because no one has associated her with Sherlock yet doesn't mean it can't happen. Her turn is coming, she's sure of it.

 

Inside is a handkerchief, plain white cotton, though obviously high quality. It's monogrammed, MH; there's something familiar about it and it isn't just the initials. She fishes out the card inside, cream-coloured card stock with no other markings. She flips it over. The message is written in fountain pen.

 

_**A burden shared is a burden halved. Thank you. —M** _

 

 _Oh_ , she thinks, remembering that day. She'd given the handkerchief to Sherlock's mother to return, hasn't thought of it since.

 

 _Apparently Sherlock isn't the only one in his family given to the dramatic_ , she thinks, smiling to herself. _Or the only one that hides just how big his heart is._


	9. Stuck in an Elevator and Camping Gone Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two ficlets from Tumblr asks, see title for description.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are from one question on a Tumblr ask meme: 28: stuck in an elevator AU or camping gone bad AU? . I got asked twice, so both askers (biroba and an anon) got a ficlet. Neither have been beta'd or britpicked.

**Stuck in an Elevator**

"Are you getting a signal?"

"We're in the middle of a building surrounded by concrete and steel support beams, of course I'm not getting a signal."

"I was just asking."

Sherlock continued to fidget, shifting his weight restlessly from foot to foot.

"Do you have to pee?"

He looked straight ahead, annoyed and clamping down on it. "No."

"It's probably nothing serious. I mean, the emergency lights are on, so it's not like we'll plummet to a gruesome death or anything. Probably."

"And you just keep talking..." he said, his face blanked and eyebrows high.

Molly's eyes flew wide. "Are you claustrophobic?"

Sherlock looked at the ceiling, pained. "No," he gritted out.

"Oh. Good. I'm not either. During my foundation year I won twenty quid by getting shut up inside a drawer in the cold chamber for ten minutes. They let me have a blanket, so it was fine."

He looked at her askance. "Only twenty? Should have held out for more."

"What can I say, I'm a cheap date." She gave him one of her wry half-smiles.

Sherlock's posture went from tense to ramrod straight. "Molly, about that--"

"Oh! I wasn't coming on to you or anything! It's, ah, just one of those things people say. Eh heh," she tittered.

"I wouldn't say no. If you were to come on to me. Hypothetically speaking," Sherlock said, cagey.

"You what?"

"I was going to ask you at lunch if you'd ever consider going out with me sometime. I mean, yes, obviously things have changed since the last time you expressed any kind of romantic interest in me, but I don't think I'm misreading the situation, though I don't exactly have a stellar track record with that, really probably shouldn't have said anyth--"

"You mean on a date?" Molly cut off his rambling before he worked himself into a state, her eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

"Yes."

"Not like solving crimes and going for chips?"

"Not if you don't want to solve crimes and go for chips? Not your thing? No, okay," he said the last bit more to himself than her, making a mental note.

"And it's not for a case or anything?"

"No...?"

"Is this a midlife crisis? Are you having a midlife crisis because John and Mary have the baby now?"

"Wh—noo—ooh thank God!" he said as the lights flickered on and the elevator jolted back to life.

"I told you it wasn't anything serious. We got a memo yesterday that they'd be doing maintenance work and there might be short interruptions in power to all non-essential systems."

"That? Should have been your headline," Sherlock said, squinting, his mouth pulling tight at the corners in that sarcastic way of his.

"You were standing right behind me when I opened the email."

"I didn't read it, seemed boring."

"Right," she said, stepping forward as the lift stopped and the doors started to slide open. "And the answer is yes. A tuna wrap and crisps in the canteen doesn't count, by the way. This is just lunch. Not a date."

"Not a lunch date?"

"No, those are only pity-dates anyway."

"Ah," he said, looking slightly confused while integrating that new information before following her down the corridor to the canteen.

 

**Camping Gone Bad  
**

As soon as Sherlock pulled the hired car into the B&B's parking lot she knew something was wrong. The ambulance and police cordon were a dead giveaway. Sherlock was out of the car before Molly got her seatbelt unclipped.

He bounded over to her as soon as she got to the police tape. "Surprise double murder and a missing family heirloom! This is shaping up to be the best holiday ever! Find us another hotel, can't stay in the crime scene," he said, looking put out by that rather than the fact that they didn't currently have a place to sleep. Then he disappeared again.

*

"Come with me to Wales, he said. You're always complaining you never go anywhere on holiday and I've already booked two rooms, it would be a shame to let it go to waste, he said. I need an assistant, he said," Molly groused, pulling her suitcase from the boot.

"I _can_ hear you," Sherlock said, looking at the diagram for the tent.

"Good, you were supposed to."

"Where's your sense of adventure? You were a Girl Guide."

"We made soup and had sing-songs in care homes. There was no camping."

"We're lucky we're not sleeping in the car. Height of the tourist season, apparently. Height of the midges season, for that matter," he muttered, swishing his hand in front of his face.

"We're _lucky_ they have tents for hire in the campground office and that this one doesn't smell like sick or wee, according to the charming lad that couldn't be arsed to put his phone down while I made all the arrangements," she said, batting away the ever-present cloud of midges.

"Would you rather be nursing all three Watsons through the Black Death right now?"

"Point taken. Give me those," she said, holding out her hand for the instructions sheet.

*

"Are you serious?" Molly asked the ceiling of the tent. Another drop of water hit her forehead in reply.

"Told you you put the tarpaulin on wrong," Sherlock said without looking up from his phone.

Molly closed her eyes and gritted her teeth before sliding the balled up jumper she'd been using for a pillow one foot to the right. She wiggled herself into an uncomfortable position next to Sherlock, making sure her bony shoulder dug into his arm. There was a lump under her back that was probably just a clump of grass but felt like a tennis ball.

"Oh, come _on_ ," she said when she felt another drop hit the floor of the tent and splash her arm.

Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh and shifted himself over farther to his right so she could move out of the splash zone.

*

"Do you think it would be warmer in the car?" Molly asked. At least her teeth weren't chattering. Yet.

"We'd get soaked through before we ever made it. I'd rather be relatively dry and cold than wet and cold."

"We fled the Plague only to die of hypothermia. Sounds like a cautionary tale of some kind."

Sherlock made a little noise in his throat. "Is this the point where one of us suggests sharing body heat as a viable alternative to a grim and prolonged death?"

"And you say you never watch telly."

"Not intentionally. It just happens sometimes."

"Uh huh," she said. "Well, there's no way it can be any more uncomfortable than sleeping on rocks half in a puddle, so, I mean..."

"Yes, right," Sherlock said, nodding to himself in the dark.

"Well then," Molly said, waiting another few moments before rolling over and slipping an arm around Sherlock's waist.

He rolled onto his side and there was a bit of shuffling of limbs until Sherlock went stock still.

"Sorry," he said. "That's ah, just a reaction to the—"

"Stop talking," Molly said loudly, settling herself fully against him, unwanted erection be damned. She'd have all the feelings in the world about it later.

"Yes, right," Sherlock said, cowed. Then, after a beat, "At least they'll release the scene tomorrow and we'll have our ro—dear _God_ your hands are like ice."

"Cold hands, warm hea—gah!" Sherlock's hands had found their way under her jumper.

"Only fair," he said.

Molly scowled at him, even if he couldn't see her in the dark.

"I suppose this would be more awkward if it were John or Mary," Molly offered when neither of them were able to relax enough to actually sleep.

"John would have packed a blanket, at least. And he gives off heat like a furnace. I think it's all the anger. Mary would have taken the car and driven back to the station. Without me in it. Neither of them would have brought spare gloves or a UV torch, though," he said, giving the top of her bum what was probably meant to be a reassuring little pat before he realized what he was doing.

She chose not to comment on it. "The torch did come in handy, didn't it? At least we know no one was murdered or shagged inside the tent. But the night's still young."

"Wh—"

"Oh God, murder! It was a murder joke! I haven't murdered you yet. Just murder! I'm going to shut uh—"

She didn't get the chance to finish her sentence; Sherlock did it for her. With his mouth. On hers.

*

Later, she had the thought that she hoped the next people to use the tent didn't bring their own UV torch.

 

 


	10. “You look pretty hot in plaid.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by theemptyquarto, #45, “You look pretty hot in plaid.” 
> 
> Inspired by Sherlock's plaid traveling suit in TAB.
> 
> I can't do actual drabbles, my brain chafes at such restrictions. Always the rebel, me.
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.)

"You look pretty hot in plaid," Molly said, lurking in the doorway of her bathroom while Sherlock used half a packet of her (really expensive and hard to find) make-up wipes.

"Molly, your humour is better suited for your patients. Honestly, who films a costume drama in the middle of London in the height of summer?" Sherlock had already ditched the top half of the suit and stood in front of her sink in just trousers slung low, the period-appropriate braces dangling at his sides.

"I know, who would run around in a wool suit and winter coat when it's thirty-two degrees in the shade?" she said, twisting her lips to hide her smile.

He narrowed his eyes at her in the mirror but said nothing. And he thought she couldn't do subtle. Ha.

"Still not sure why you kept the suit, though. I mean—and don't take this the wrong way—Nucky Thompson isn't really your look."

"I have no idea who that is, and don't bother telling me because I've already deleted it," he said, wiping down his ridiculously long neck with a regular flannel. She watched a bead of water (or possibly sweat) trickle over his (very bare, very pink) chest in the mirror.

"It's actually Mycroft's. I borrowed it. I wasn't about to waste time in wardrobe with the other extras when I didn't have to, they wouldn't have had any useful information anyway. In hindsight, going in as a grip probably would have sufficed. Twenty-twenty," he shrugged.

She stifled the urge to make any kind of joke involving the word 'grip.' It would be lost on him, anyway.

"Well, if you need me I'll be lying in front of the fan in my pants with a spray bottle," she said, pushing off the door frame. She really wished she had an excuse to go into work today, but everyone had the same idea and the place was packed to the rafters with every tech and student in the entire hospital.

"Good thing I was already planning on a cold shower," Sherlock muttered. His face went from slightly-pink-from-being-overheated to the tomato-red of mortification when he realized he'd said it out loud.

"And you say I shouldn't make jokes," she said flatly before removing herself to the hallway. One of these days they'd have to stop pretending, but today was not that day.

 


	11. “It’s okay to cry…”/ “Can I do your hair?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme. Two lines that I managed to work into one fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by bkst-tutu1b, 18 (“It’s okay to cry…”) and 117 (“Can I do your hair?”), separately or within a same drabble please?
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.) 
> 
> (Today's theme is crack with a side of UST.)

“Can I do your hair?” Sherlock asked as he took off his coat.

Who needed hello? Not Sherlock. "Is it for a case?" Molly asked, going back to her book.

"Pretty sure that was implied."

She made a Marge Simpson noise inside her head. "Now, I suppose?"

"No, a month from Tuesday next. Of course now."

She sighed and put her book down. "You're not cutting it, dyeing it, or otherwise damaging it."

"Noted."

"And I get to do yours afterwards."

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together and he pulled back, suspicious. "Why?"

"Call it insurance," she said. Really, she'd always wanted to play with his hair and he'd just dropped the opportunity in her lap like that...

"Fine. Same rules apply. And do try to be gentle, I hate having my hair pulled. I have very sensitive follicles."

"Do you need a safeword, too?" she asked, heading for the stairs. Sometimes things just came out of her mouth before she could stop them.

His lips started to form a question before he thought better of it. He shook his head and followed her.

"So what's the case?"

"Smuggling. I need to figure out how to get this," he held up a plastic Minion keychain, "out of a private gallery opening gala."

"I'm going to go ahead an assume that's standing in for some priceless cultural artefact of roughly the same size."

"Nope. Hidden flash drive."

"Mm. And you're sure it left in a lady's hair and not her—"

"Look at the size of it! No one hobbled out of the building, I already checked the CCTV."

"I was going to say handbag, but sure. Though I do think you're severely underestimating the carrying capacity of a woman's—"

"Molly, please stop talking now."

"I'm just saying. You wouldn't believe the things we find up there sometimes."

Sherlock cast his eyes heavenward.

*

Two hours, seven styles, and a slightly sore scalp later, Sherlock fired off a text to Hopkins with his findings.

"Sit," Molly said, indicating to the chair while pulling out her tools.

*

Sherlock stood in front of her bathroom mirror and stared at himself, his face completely devoid of emotion.

When she'd got tired of twisting his curls (gently; he winced at even the slightest tug, the killjoy), she'd decided to get out the straightening iron (not that she needed it; she didn't even know why she owned one if she was being honest). First she'd done a kind of slicked-back turn-of-the-century thing, then a classy golden-era Hollywood side-part, then she just decided to get silly.

He didn't seem to like the K-pop hair.

"It’s okay to cry…" she teased, grinning over his shoulder when he scowled at her.

"Are you finished, or do you have anything else you need to get out of your system?"

"I'm good for now. Well, maybe just—" she slid around him and reached up to ruffle his hair a bit. "Yeah, now I'm good."

Sherlock looked down at her, expression unreadable. He swallowed. "You're sure that's all?"

She realized she'd let her hand rest on his shoulder and that she was leaning into him, her face tilted up towards his just so.

She could. It would be so easy to just flex her toes and bounce up to plant a kiss on that perfect, cruel mouth of his.

She really couldn't, though. She couldn't chance ruining whatever this thing was they had. She reached up and ruffled his hair again, finger-combing the fringe down into his eyes. "Okay, now I'm really finished."

She was probably just imagining the fleeting look of disappointment on Sherlock's face when she pulled away.

 


	12. “Take. It. Off.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by an anon: "For the drabble challenge 14 (“Take. It. Off.” ) if you don't mind. I just know that you'll come up with something great."
> 
> Ehheh, I wouldn't call it great, but it's a 10x drabble, so it's got a great quantity of words.
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.)

"Oh God, you're wearing the hat again. Why are you wearing the hat?" Molly asked when Sherlock got out of the cab in front of the bakery. It was her birthday this time; cake was a thing they were doing now. A family thing, more for Rosie than anybody.

"People like the hat."

"I'm people and I don't like the hat."

Sherlock shot John a smug look.

"Oh, come on, don't wear it inside," she pleaded as he started for the door.

"I can't take it off now, it'll ruin my hair," Sherlock said, probably only half-kidding.

"Take. It. Off," she gritted out, making a swipe for it that he easily dodged.

"Too slow, short-arse," Sherlock said lightly. The teasing wasn't new, exactly, but it had become a rare thing since Mary had died. She'd thought they might have completely lost whatever might have been happening between them up until then, but every little smile, every bit of prolonged physical contact gave her hope.

"Oh no you didn't," she said, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Oh, I believe I did," he said lightly, his smile bright.

She went after him then in the same way she'd go after her (much taller) younger brother; viciously and without restraint. He might have size and speed on her, but she had dexterity and strength that no one expected by the looks of her.

He ducked and feinted and there were a few more narrow misses until he just turned and ran; she used the opportunity presented by him dodging a passer-by to jump on his back and use her knees to climb him like a tree, throwing an arm around his neck and snatching the hat with the other, letting loose a cry of triumph. His hands hooked under her thighs automatically to brace her; instinct, probably.

"Fine, yes, you win, but only because it's your birthday and I let you," he said, doing a kind of little hop and a wiggle to resettle her more comfortably before he turned and started walking back to John and Rosie.

"You just keep telling yourself that, petal," she said, patting his shoulder with the hand not clutching the hat.

Sherlock let her down in front of the shop and ruffled his hair back into place before holding open the door for her.

The look on John's face was priceless.

*

She diverted herself to 221B on her way home the next day.

"Have you seen The Sun today?" she asked, popping in the open kitchen door. Sherlock was doing something with an open flame and bacon that didn't look like it would result in a butty.

"No, I haven't been outside, why?" he deadpanned.

She held up the paper.

_**Boffin Detective Boffin' the Nanny?** _

The picture was of her on Sherlock's back from the day before; they'd done a blown-up inset of his hand clamped around her thigh. Inside there were more pictures of them eating cake and laughing. It was actually kind of startling to see how far inside each other's personal space they'd been without realizing. But that wasn't the point.

"They think you're the nanny?" he said, his face screwing up in that way of his that made it look like it was made entirely of elbow skin.

" _That's_ your takeaway?"

"Please, they've been trying to link me romantically with anything with a pulse within five feet of me for years. I smiled at a bank teller once and it got a whole paragraph."

"The Bridesmaid didn't exactly help your case," Molly grumbled, setting the paper on a relatively clutter-free space. She rounded the table to start making tea; she could murder a cuppa and 'help yourself' had been the expectation from the day she dropped off the severed head all those years before.

Sherlock turned off the flame of the torch. "You _are_ aware that every time you refer to 'The Bridesmaid'—her name is Janine, by the way— you do this," he said, cupping his hands in front of his chest.

"No I don't."

He looked at her with his eyebrows raised; _really Molly, we both know that's not true_.

"Maybe I do. But they were huge."

"Still a bit rude," he said.

It was her turn to look at him with her eyebrows raised; _pot, meet kettle._

He conceded and turned back to the table to start clearing his experiment. "Fancy something from downstairs? I'm starving."

"Bacon sandwich?"

"Mm. Probably shouldn't have soaked the whole packet in Mr. Muscle. The backbone of good science is repeatability, though."

She nodded; she couldn't fault him on his dedication to the scientific method. "Really though, it doesn't bother you that people are going to think we're sleeping together?"

"We do sleep together."

Of course he would get technical. They slept in the same bed. Often, especially since she'd spend all those nights there while he was getting clean. He knew she meant sex, though, which they certainly did not do. "I knew you were going to say that, and you know what I mean."

"People think what they think. Does it matter?" He sounded more aggravated than she would have expected.

"Well, no, I mean, my name wasn't even mentioned, so I suppose not," she said, unwilling and unable to articulate why that bothered her so much.

"Good. Are you staying tonight?"

"I didn't bring anything to wear to work tomorrow."

"Recycle the trousers. I think Janine left a jumper here that you could wear, though it might be a little loose in the chest."

"All that sex we don't actually have? That would get you less of it."

"I'm buying you dinner, shouldn't that count for something?"

Sometimes he did actually make the whole unrequited love thing easier, she thought, levelling him with a flat look and pressing her mouth into a thin line.

"Taking that as a no," he muttered, scribbling something on the notepad on the table. "So are you staying? I'd like to plan my evening."

Only he would say that so seriously. "I've got nothing else on," she said. Like she would ever turn down the offer anyway.

 

 


	13. “Come over here and make me.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by mizjoely, "Sherlolly: “Come over here and make me.” (#29)"
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.)

**Bored. SH**

**Clients are boring. SH**

**Dimmock is boring. SH**

**Bored. SH**

**Even more bored. SH**

**I have never wanted a cigarette so badly in my life. SH**

**BORED. SH**

**OMG shut up**

**Come over here and make me. SH**

**Are you inviting me over?**

**I'm not not-inviting you over. SH**

**Why weren't you answering my texts? SH**

**I was in meetings all afternoon. Adulting.**

**Sounds boring. SH**

**Oh it was.**

**Had a crispy critter pulled out of a skip this morning.**

**Had to use the decomp room for him.**

**No one had fun at the meetings >:D**

**Well, except me.**

**So Korean BBQ for dinner is a no? SH**

**Kimbap sounds goooood. I need a shower before I go anywhere.**

**Use mine. I'm hungry. SH**

*

"I have no idea what you're saying," she yelled, poking her head around the curtain. "Just open the damn door!"

Who needs privacy, right? He'd just keep shouting until Mrs. Hudson came upstairs, and that was a trip she didn't need to make with her hip still being what it was.

The door opened. "I said, 'Did you want what you got last time or something different, I'm bored, I'm going to order because you're taking too long.'"

"I've been in here less than five minutes. I haven't even washed the conditioner out of my hair yet."

"Yes, and I couldn't wait another twenty while you shaved your legs or waxed your eyebrows or whatever always takes you so long."

"You know, I would ask why you _even_ , but I don't want the answer." It was weird to be running her hands over her slippery, naked body while Sherlock talked to her from less than three feet away. Certainly a vastly different context than any thoughts she'd previously entertained.

"Why I even what?"

"Really?"

"Sentence fragments work better for Millenials."

"Says a thirty-eight year old man that says 'lay-uhz' and 'el-oh-el.'" She made sure to do the voice for emphasis.

" _That_ is irony."

"Thinking of moving to Shoreditch? You could rock a man-bun and a plaid shirt. Maybe not the Brian Blessed beard, though. Trade in your violin for a ukulele."

"Now that's just uncalled for."

"You started it."

"And now I'm finishing it. Do you hear that? That's my hand on the flush handle."

She stuck her hand out from behind the shower curtain, waving the flannel.

"What are you doing? Do you want me to, ah, take... that?"

"It's a white flag, you lump. I'm surrendering."

"But it's blue."

"Well I'm sorry you have an aversion to white bathroom linens, I'm working with what I have. Why are you even in here again?"

"Trying to lock down this takeway order situation," he said.

"Just get a few different things and we'll mix and match."

"Honestly, was that so difficult? Did you wash the conditioner out of your hair yet?"

"Yeeeeah... why?"

She heard the flush and dove out of the spray just in time.

*

"Well, that escalated quickly," Molly said, digging a piece of kimbap out of the box on the floor with her bare fingers.

"Yes it did," Sherlock said, looking a bit dazed as he stared at the ceiling of the lounge.

"I don't think Seoul Bakery's ever going to deliver here again."

"At least it wasn't Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock said, groping for the box.

"Fank Gaw f smaw mirculs," she said around the mouthful of kimbap. She picked out another piece and fed it to Sherlock, who still looked like he barely had the coordination to chew. And he didn't scold her for talking with her mouth full, either. There were so many 'if I'd only known _that_ was all it took' jokes in there she didn't know where to begin.

"Maybe next time in the bed. Rugburn," Sherlock said after he swallowed his food.

"So like... now? Or...?"

"You do know I'm not eighteen."

"Could've fooled me," she said, leaning down to kiss him.

"Wait, is that a good thing or a bad thing?" he asked, pulling away.

"Oh my _God_ , would you just shut up?"

She kissed him again before he could say anything else.

 


	14. “We’re not playing strip poker. I don’t care what I said when I was drunk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by biroba: For the drabble challenge: 132 (“We’re not playing strip poker. I don’t care what I said when I was drunk.”), please.
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.)

"We’re not playing strip poker. I don’t care what I said when I was drunk. That was like a year ago, anyway."

"It's not for fun, it's for a case."

"Cases _are_ how you have fun."

"Yes, and getting pissed and taking your clothes off is how you have fun, so there's really no downside to this."

Molly just looked at him from across the lab table, her head cocked to the side. She tongued her cheek and raised her eyebrows; that usually worked. He just stared back at her, waiting patiently for her to catch up and see just how right his reasoning was.

"Tell me again why John can't do it?"

"Some kind of birthing class... thing. God only knows why they need it, he's a doctor and she's a nurse and they know how it's going to come out."

"Please never get anyone pregnant." _Well, besides me. Not now. But in like, five years._

"Not on the bucket list."

"I don't think I want to know what's actually on that list, do I?"

"Probably not, no."

"Okay," she said, nodding once and turning back to the kidney she'd brought in to make slides of.

Sherlock made a little noise of assent and left.

 _Oh shit_ , she thought. _Did I just—?_

*

"I wasn't actually agreeing to it, you know," she said as soon as she let herself into her flat and saw Sherlock's coat hanging on his peg.

"Solved it hours ago anyway," Sherlock said, drooped over her sofa like the wilted lettuce on the canteen chicken sandwich she'd had for lunch. He was ennui personified.

"How was it?"

"Started off a solid seven, went to a two when I watched the CCTV footage."

"Better luck next time?"

"Doubtful," he said glumly.

"Do you have any other cases?"

"Nothing pressing."

"Cold case? I'll be your corpse, if you want."

That got his attention.

"I suppose we could do one," he said, flapping his hand for her to bring him his laptop.

*

"No, there had to be two, the feet were bare and there were no abrasions on the heels," Sherlock argued.

Molly continued to remain completely limp, her shoulders pressed into his ribs and his forearms locked around her upper chest. It would actually be kind of nice if her head weren't dangling at an odd angle.

"Oh, for— Watch." Sherlock started to drag her across the lounge towards the steps.

"Molly, are you sure you're alright with this?" Greg asked, a kind of disbelieving fascination underneath his usual good-natured and slightly confused expression.

"It beats watching Britain's Got Talent and eating cake icing out of the tub with a spoon," she said, trying not to move. "Probably do that afterwards, anyway."

"As you can see," Sherlock said, "her heels are dragging along the floor. If it were berber carpeting, like in the victim's flat, she would have _abrasions_. The stairs cause bruising—Molly warn me if you feel like you're slipping—on the backs of the ankles. Now, if she were dragged by the arms, which is much more difficult—"

"Yeah, alright, I get the picture. So who was the accessory?"

"Sister-in-law. She wasn't out at the shops like she said."

Sherlock continued to drag her up the stairs anyway, even though Greg was apparently satisfied with the explanation.

"Probably let Molly go whenever, now," Greg said, looking up at them from the bottom of the stairs.

"Not on the stairs, she's a corpse, she'll roll down them like a sack of potatoes. Besides, it's so much fun to drag her around like this. She's completely limp! I've never met another human that can do that. It's like fully-conscious narcolepsy." They hit the landing and Sherlock picked up her arm, wiggling it for emphasis.

"Right, then, I'm off out. Sherlock, Bernie," he nodded.

Sherlock waved Molly's hand for her.

"Try not to bang me around too much when you get me into bed."

"Do you ever choose words with precision, or do they always just fall out like that?"

"Wh—oh. You're the pervert for thinking it."

"You're the pervert for thinking I was taking you to bed."

"Of course you're taking me to bed, that's where they found the body. You can't just stop in the middle, you always need to play out the whole thing."

"I'm thorough. I like to be thorough."

"It's OCD," she said lightly, having heard a thousand times about everything Mycroft did.

"You know there was duct tape residue on the victim's mouth. I don't feel like I'm reconstructing the scenario properly, just stay here," he said, moving to ease her to the hallway floor just outside her bedroom door.

"No cake icing for you."

"If you eat the whole tub by yourself you'll get sick anyway," he said, tightening his hold again and resettling her with a little wiggle.

He dragged her over to the bed and looked at it, planning his angle of attack.

"Hmm. Well, nothing for it, I suppose," he muttered before spinning around and falling onto the bed, pulling her tighter against himself and sliding her higher against his body as he did so.

Sherlock grunted when they landed and again on the rebound bounce.

"Is that—"

"Keys," he strangled out.

"That's going to bruise. At least we'll match."

"You could move off of them," he said through gritted teeth.

"Can't, I'm still dead, remember?"

He rolled so they were on their sides, legs dangling awkwardly off the end of the bed. Sherlock panted into her hair, half from exertion and half from the pain of having his keys crushed into his upper thigh.

"So was the victim in her pyamas already or do you need to undress me?"

Sherlock made a little noise behind her and shifted.

"That's... not your keys, is it?"

"No it is not," he said, tapping the 't' for emphasis. He held himself completely still.

"Just so we're clear, it's not the corpse thing, right? Just the, ah, wrestling... thing."

"Not the corpse thing, no. Or the wrestling thing, so much."

"Oh."

"You could maybe, in fact, stop being a dead body right now so I can get up. And please for the love of _God_ don't say whatever I know you're dying to."

"Wouldn't know where to start, honestly. Spoiled for choice. I could, ah, y'know, help you with that, though. I mean, this can't get any more awkward right now, so the only way out is through, right?" she tittered.

"And yet you try..." he muttered. "Fine. But don't be a corpse when I undress you, that would be weird. Even I have limits."

"I can work with that."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Why yes, that's a _Weekend at Bernie's_ headcanon joke I've been waiting almost _seven years_ to make)


	15. “You didn’t just wake me up at 2am because you were ‘in the mood’.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by violetjersey: 93 (“You didn’t just wake me up at 2am because you were ‘in the mood’.” ) in the Drabble challenge
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.)

 

She startled awake; Sherlock was looming over her. She didn't scream, but it was a near thing.

"Why are you here?" she asked before her brain engaged.

"No reason," he said, pulling back the bedcovers and sliding in next to her. He would use his body to nudge her over to the wall side of the bed; he'd done it countless times before.

"Well, you didn’t just wake me up at 2am because you were ‘in the mood,’" she groused, reluctantly shifting out of her warm spot.

"Everything's always about sex with you. You're worse than John."

"I'm in my mid-thirties. It's biological. And I like sex. I _really_ like sex. Probably as much as you like murders."

"I don't actually like murders. I like _solving_ murders. There's a difference."

She made a little noise that translated to 'if you say so,' before rolling on her side to face the wall, which quickly proved to be a mistake. "Christ your feet are cold! Why do you always do that?"

"Because your calves are warm. And it feels like one of those coir doormats when you don't shave your legs." He shuffled his feet against her calves for emphasis.

"Did you just use my stubble to clean your feet?" Once upon a time, she would have been mortified. Before he'd started living out of her flat half the week, the lack of reason for which even he didn't even bother denying.

"They've been in socks all day, they're hardly dirty."

"Mm." She made sure her displeasure was clear. "So did you solve any murders today?"

"No. Theft, two cases of infidelity, and oh, Harrods asked me to identify a serial urinator."

"A serial—like, in the changing rooms?" She rolled onto her back to look over at him. He was just a lump under the duvet and mop of hair.

"Cosmetics section."

"Did you solve it?"

"Waiting for the security footage."

"So you're actually taking it?"

"Of course I am, I want the discount."

"How much of a discount?"

"Substantial."

"Does it apply to friends and family?"

"Just me."

"Bollocks. What if you pretended I was your girlfriend and you were taking me on a shopping spree?"

Sherlock rolled over to face her, curling into a ball again. "What could you possibly want at Harrods? Everything you own is from Primark or Top Shop or a jumble sale."

"I shop at other places. I bought a top at Forever 21 last week."

"Mm. And you wonder why I never take you out in public."

"Isn't that a bit redundant? Can't exactly take me out in private, can you?"

"Molly, we can't both be the pedantic one in this relationship. And since I'm obviously better at it, you're the one who needs to give it up."

"It's a brave new world, Sherlock. Let go of your preconceived notions of the roles of a Double Act."

His eyes were closed, already starting to drift off; he gave her a soft smile anyway.

She was almost asleep herself when he said, "So, hypothetically, if I did wake you up at two in the morning because I was 'in the mood,' what would you do?"

"Promptly die of a heart attack, look around for hidden cameras, or roll over and go back to sleep because I'm obviously dreaming. Going with that last one, because I'm warm and comfortable and that's not something you'd ever say to me while I was awake." Internally, she was halfway to her first option.

"Hn," he grunted, sounding somewhere between contemplative and disappointed.


	16. “You, me, popcorn, two liter Dr. Pepper, and a movie. You in?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by rooneykmara: 107 (“You, me, popcorn, two liter Dr. Pepper, and a movie. You in?”) for the Drabble challenge? Thank you!
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked. Consider this an AU that ignores John's impassioned speech in TLD and all of TFP. It's crack, just go with it.)

**You, me, popcorn, two litre Dr. Pepper, and a movie. You in?**

**Are we talking Netflix and chill or...?**

**And why didn't you sign your text? Is that a code?**

**Are you in trouble? Is this a Funkytown scenario?**

**Last text sent from a murder victim's phone. John was proving a point. SH**

**And it is never a Funkytown scenario. I never agreed to that. SH**

**You said we needed a code word, I gave you a code word.**

**I refuse to acknowledge it as such. SH**

**Your funeral. Possibly literally. Also, what point?**

**Will tell you later. SH**

*

"I told you it wasn't rocket science. You've really never asked a girl out, have you?" John said.

Sherlock stared out the window of the cab. "She didn't say yes."

"Because you changed the subject. Nice lie, there, by the way."

"If you're going to commit the crime in the first place by grabbing my phone, I'm going to implicate you for accessory at the very least."

"So are you going over there tonight with popcorn, fizzy pop, and a DVD?"

"Well I have to now, don't I?"

"Could just say you solved it."

"Then she'll want details, which I'll have to make up _and_ remember while she asks me a million and one eerily insightful questions. Entirely more trouble than it's worth. The easiest way is just to watch the damn film, pretend I'm in my Mind Palace while I take a nap on the sofa and then leave quickly because I've cracked the case. If I'm enthusiastic enough, I might get away with spinning her around and kissing her on the forehead."

"Still going to have to tell her about it sometime later."

"I'll just avoid her for a week and then say I deleted it and John couldn't put it on the blog or we'd get sued."

"Avoiding her for a week? That's the plan?"

"I've done it in the past."

"Maybe don't avoid her for a week if tonight turns into Netflix and chill."

"I hardly think that's going to happen."

"She's the one that suggested it. I wouldn't be so quick to say no."

"You're never quick to say no. Pretty much exactly the opposite."

John cast his eyes heavenward before looking out his own window.

*

" _Grease_? Seriously? There's your motive for murder," Molly said, holding it with her thumb and forefinger by one corner like it was made of used nappies and banana peels.

So much for the single commonality between eight different 'best films for Netflix and chill' lists.

"And you got diet?"

"What? No I didn't."

She turned the bottle. Apparently he _had_ got diet.

"You're like my Mum, how could you not realize it was diet? Oh well. Put enough vodka in it and it won't matter anyway," she said, cracking the bottle and pouring them each a glass (well, neon-coloured plastic tumbler). She grabbed the vodka from the freezer and dumped what looked to be half a bottle's worth into her cup.

"You want me to Irish this up for you?" she asked, indicating his cup. "Oh, right, never mind, you're still working, sorry."

"No, it's alrigh..." She'd already put the bottle back. Well then.

"Can you do the popcorn? I'm just going to pop upstairs and change into something more comfortable."

He knew she didn't mean lingerie, but he let himself picture it anyway while the popcorn bag rotated in the microwave. He might have got a bit distracted, he realized, when the bag began to smoke.

Molly levelled him with a _look_ when she hit the bottom of the stairs; at least he hadn't set off the smoke detectors. As for the 'something more comfortable'... certainly not lingerie. Closer to fifteen-year-old-at-a-sleepover than sex kitten; she had on a plush unicorn hoodie, a pair of clashing plaid sleep shorts barely peeking out from under the hem and the most ridiculous rainbow-striped slipper socks he'd ever seen.

"I salvaged half," he said, holding up the sad bowl of only slightly-singed popcorn. "And we have two more bags of Sweet and Salted and three of Salted."

"I'm not very hungry anyway," she said, grabbing her cup and swigging from it as she swiped the DVD from the worktop. "Let's get this over with."

*

"Oh my God, is it over yet?" Molly said, pushing her legs out straight and her head against the back of the sofa before going limp.

"That was the end of the opening credits."

"Can't we just skip to the end? Or at least put it on mute? Is this part really necessary for the case?"

He'd already committed to the lie, he couldn't go back on it now. "Nope, can't. It's all about the timing," he pulled out of his arse. "Though I'm beginning to understand why this is such a popular date movie. It's so bad that anything to draw attention away from it would be welcome, including pouring hot coffee in one's lap or bamboo under the fingernails."

"Normal people usually just snog," Molly said, taking a sip of her drink and waving the cup as she spoke.

_Right_ , he thought. _This is the moment_. Liquid courage first, though; he snatched the tumbler from her hand and downed it in one go.

"I did offer you your own. I suppose your cup was too far away?"

He didn't answer, just leaned over into her space.

"Wh...at are you doing?" she asked, leaning backwards, away from him.

"Trying to kiss you?"

"Is it for the case?"

_Damned if I do, damned if I don't_ , he thought. "Mayyy...be?"

"Pretty straightforward yes or no question, Sherlock."

"Which would make you less angry?"

"Not too pleased with that question," she said shortly, pulling away as much as was physically possible in her position.

"Well then, that's my answer," he mumbled, sitting back in his original spot and training his gaze on the screen. He supposed sitting through the next hour and change of that affront to modern cinema was his punishment for lying to her in the first place; he really wanted nothing more than to slink home with his tail between his legs and never have to face her again.

They sat in heavy silence, an ice sheet the size of Antarctica settling over them. At least for a few minutes. Then—

"Sherlock?"

"Mm." He kept his lips pressed tight together and his eyes glued to the telly.

"Were you actually trying to kiss me?"

"Did say that," he said curtly.

"I mean, not for your case. Or, at least, not completely for the case."

Ugh, why did she keep asking that? It was like she wanted him to admit he was lying _and_ that he had no experience with women to speak of. Well, women he actually wanted to have and maintain a relationship with. "Does it matter?"

"Would I be asking if it didn't?"

"I don't know, I've already deleted all of it," he dismissed, aggravated and wishing she would stop twisting the knife already.

"There isn't actually a case, is there." It wasn't a question, but a statement.

He physically couldn't bring himself to admit just how badly he'd fucked up. He thought he'd very much like to cry and probably would when he got home just to get it out of his system.

He heard her blow out a frustrated breath, and then her hand was on his jaw and she was turning his face and her face was right there and _she_ was kissing _him_. He'd barely started to react when she pulled away.

"Next time don't get diet. And I'll pick the movie."

 


	17. “Oh, fuck off.”/ “Do you really think I could ever replace you?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by whenisayrunrun: 27 (“Oh, fuck off.”), 29 (“Come over here and make me.”) and 102 ("Do you really think I could ever replace you?”)
> 
> I already used #29, and I just couldn't squeeze it in. Two outta three... Meatloaf... 
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.)

"I see you have a date tonight," Sherlock said when he walked into her office. Not _hello_ , or even _oh, there you are, you weren't in the lab and I got scared for a minute because I thought I was on the wrong floor or walked through a door to a parallel universe_.

"Got to get back on the horse sometime," Molly replied, not looking up from the joyous task of dotting Is and crossing Ts.

Sherlock was quiet; she risked a glance up and yep, he was trying to decide if she'd been alluding to sex. She sighed internally; sometimes she wondered how he'd made it this far into adulthood with that level of innocence intact.

"It's been five months. And he seemed nice. It's better than spending yet another night at home alone, I can only reorganize my spice cupboard so many times." She didn't even know why she felt like she needed to explain.

"We were going to play Cluedo tonight."

"No we weren't?" That was something she thought she'd remember agreeing to.

"I texted you."

"Pretty sure you didn't."

"I did, check your phone."

"You check _your_ phone."

"I always delete our texts."

"Rude."

"Smart. Do you really want the next Moriarty to know your phone number, where you work, what toppings you like on your pizza?"

"The first Moriarty knew all that."

"Yes, and you got lucky."

"Sure didn't," she mumbled under her breath. She was glad she hadn't actually slept with him and she'd been a little shaken afterwards, but she could joke about it now. "Anyway, you really didn't text me. You can see for yourself," she said, digging her phone out of her pocket and handing it to him.

He scowled while he scrolled through their text history. "Fine. I thought about texting you."

"Oh, silly me, how could I not have known that?"

"My replacement's name is Colm? Yech."

"Do you really think I could ever replace you?" she asked a little sarcastically, channelling Mary's pouty sweetness a bit. She didn't really want to examine how the bite in his voice when he said 'replacement' made her feel a bit warm, like he was actually jealous, and not just because someone was snatching his friend away. Wishful thinking, probably.

"Well you're obviously trying. This one's not going to work, by the way. He's a workaholic in an on-again-off-again with a colleague, someone higher on the food chain than he is by the look of it. Not worth your time."

"Did... you just delete his number?" Like she even needed to ask. He'd wrecked her relationship with Tom, of course he wouldn't think twice about deleting someone's number from her phone. Give him an inch...

"Finger slipped. So, Cluedo tonight?"

Nothing for it; he was probably right and she'd rather be with him anyway, even if she could really use a bit of two-hand touch. "Holmes rules?"

"Like there are any other kind."

"Mm. Calvinball: The Board Game. Can't wait."

"Real life murders are never so neat as Professor Peacock in the kitchen with the lead pipe—well, except for the one time, that one was fairly straightforward and lacking in imagination—but the point stands. Verisimilitude."

"It's Professor Plum. And Mrs. Peacock."

"No, this was an actual case. Oxford, four?-ish years ago. It was the plumber, murder for hire."

"Ah. So, see you around seven?"

"Six, we'll get pizza. Oddly hungry for it now that I mentioned it." His eyebrows drew together like he'd confused himself by being swayed by the power of his own suggestion.

"I want pineap—"

"No."

"Prude."

"I have both good taste and respect for the elegance of plain pizza."

"Oh, fuck off, you purist. Ham?"

"If we must," he said, long-suffering.

Colm had a weird-shaped head and baby hands, anyway.

 


	18. "The skirt is supposed to be this short."/ "Well, you're coming home with me whether you like it or not."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by geekmama: Drabble Challenge, please? Prompts: 1) "The skirt is supposed to be this short." and 15) "Well, you're coming home with me whether you like it or not." 
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.) 
> 
> This is the thing I'm getting all these prompts from: http://sunken-standard.tumblr.com/post/161241092665/drabble-challenge-1-150 (if you wanted to know, which you probably didn't).

"You're not serious."

Sherlock rattled the hanger at her, eyes on his phone.

"Now I know why no one else would agree to help you. Fucking Watsons," she muttered under her breath.

"Not an image I need, thanks. Now, if you would? Bit of a schedule."

"Do you need my hair in bunches, too?"

"Not strictly necessary, but it would add a nice touch."

"I cannot believe I let you talk me into this."

"It's an anime convention, it's not like we're graverobbing. I'll buy you some kind of disgustingly cute and cat-themed... thing." He wiggled his body because his hands were otherwise occupied and he couldn't wiggle his fingers.

"I'd still prefer the graverobbing."

"Well, wouldn't we all? Next time it's required I'll call you before John."

"As opposed to it being optional?"

He rattled the hanger again.

She emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later, tugging at the sailor suit/ uniform/ whatever it was.

"Stop trying to pull it down farther. The skirt is supposed to be this short," Sherlock said, walking in a circle around her. "It'll do. Let's go."

"Aren't you going to change into some kind of costume or disguise or whatever?"

"Don't need to. Do you know how many anime characters wear black suits and white shirts? We're trying to blend and look generic, not attract attention."

"Mm, thanks," she grumped. She supposed having her tits and arse hanging out wouldn't attract anyone's attention any more, let alone his.

He looked at her askance but wisely said nothing else.

*

"Oh my giddy aunt," Molly said, looking over the sea of convention-goers.

"And people say I'm weird," Sherlock said just loud enough for her to hear.

"Well, I mean..."

"Yesterday you had a peanut butter and Coco Pops sandwich for lunch."

"I offered to share."

He conceded with a tip of his head and set off into the throng of convention-goers. At least she didn't have to try to keep up with him in platform heels or anything; the only upside to the costume was the penny loafers.

*

"That little prick just called me a fake geek girl! I was quoting Doctor Who before his sodding parents even set eyes on each other!"

"How dare he besmirch your honour," Sherlock said dryly, eyes still on the crowd.

"You don't know ash," she retaliated.

He looked over at her and scowled; something caught his eye over her shoulder and the chase was on.

*

"Who knew a foam sword could do so much damage?"

Sherlock winced as she dabbed at the cut on his cheek with a wet wipe from her handbag. The area around it was already starting to bruise.

"Not security, apparently," he grumbled.

"Better luck next time?"

Sherlock made a noise of utter dejection. "Let's go."

"I believe I was promised something kah-wye-ee and cat-themed. You actually solving the case wasn't stated as a condition."

"You missed your calling, you should have been a barrister," Sherlock sniffed. "Fine, let's get this over with."

*

"This one," she said, holding up a keychain.

"It's not cute or cat-themed."

"It's what I want. And it's kind of cute. It's almost like a little mini-you." _Oh bollocks_ , she thought, realizing she'd said he was cute (more or less) out loud.

"Just because he's got dark hair and a coat?"

"Yes."

"That's stupid."

"Well, you're coming home with me whether you like it or not. This is what I picked," she said, waving the keychain.

"Fine. Easier to stuff in a cab than one of those creepy body pillows, at any rate."

They both shuddered at what they'd seen at that booth; 'a waifu for every need' indeed. She was going to have nightmares about the one with the tentacles, she was sure.

*

"So you think I'm cute," Sherlock said in the cab.

She'd thought he'd let it slide. "Lots of things are cute. Kittens, babies, shoes, noses..." she groped for anything to list; she didn't want to deny it because it would sound like she was overcompensating and that would make it worse.

"Me."

"Sometimes," she said, trying not to sound defensive and failing miserably.

"Hn," Sherlock grunted, turning his face to look out the window like that was enough of an answer for him.

He probably didn't know she could see his little smile reflected in the glass.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The keychain, in case you were wondering: https://www.anime-remix.com/product/cowboy-bebop-spike-metal-keychain/


	19. "How long have you been standing there?"/ "And that's how you ruin a life. Congratulations."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anitaww-blog: For the drabble challenge. All or any of these. Separate, together, whatever. Thank you! 2. How long have you been standing there? 19. And that's how you ruin a life. Congratulations. 23. I didn't know we were keeping track. 125. Quit moving, I'm trying to sleep. Wait... are you...what?!
> 
> I could only make two work. I tried.
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.) 
> 
> (Inspired by the gifset all over my dash of Sherlock in jeans in [I think?] TBB.)

**And that's how you ruin a life. Congratulations. You have killed me, I'm dead** , Molly typed in her return email to Mary.

She opened up the attachments again.

"Lord have mercy," she said, scrolling to the next picture. "Look at that arse. Who even knew he owned jeans?"

"Of course I own jeans, everyone owns jeans."

Molly jumped, just barely stopping herself from slamming the laptop shut. Barn doors and horses. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Why are you looking at pictures of me from four years ago?"

She couldn't think of a convincing lie so she went with the truth. "Mary sent them because I didn't believe they existed. John was going through his old laptop."

"Why does John have pictures of me in jeans?"

"Mary said he said he took them for the blog to increase readership."

"How would _that_ increase readership?"

Molly blinked. She knew he owned a mirror. "Readership of a certain demographic."

"What demographic? Denim enthusiasts?" he argued.

"You could say that..." she said under her breath. "Females aged eighteen to dead. Apparently at the time his readership was mostly his friends and some tweedy old men and early-twenties-ish detective fanboys."

"Why jeans? Suits are much more professional. Besides, isn't the adage 'every girl is crazy about a sharp-dressed man?'" His face was scrunched up in that way that made him look like one of those old lady dolls with a head made from a dried apple.

"It's not an adage, it's ZZ Top."

"Am I supposed to know what that is?"

"No, probably not. So what—and I don't even know why I'm bothering to ask this—do you need today?"

"Head."

"Don't we all," she muttered.

"Sorry?" he asked, giving her that look that said she couldn't possibly mean what he thought she meant and he would be clutching his pearls if he were wearing them.

"Saliva coagulation experiment round three or..?" she covered.

"Bowling."

"What?"

"Testing the velocity and momentum of an irregularly-shaped object needed to knock over other objects when rolled along a flat surface. It's for a case."

"So actual bowling, like ten-pin or skittles...?"

Sherlock nodded. "Basically."

"That's going to be messy."

"Cling film," he said, holding up the carrier bag she hadn't even noticed he was holding.

"Well, let's see what we've got, then," she said, pushing away from her desk.

She made a mental note to ask Mary what other pictures John might have on his old laptop. Maybe they'd had a case at the beach that she didn't know about. One could hope.

 


	20. "Hold my hand so he gets jealous"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by everchanging101: #142 "Hold my hand so he gets jealous"
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.)

"Oh fuck."

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, looking up from his phone to see that Molly had gone pale, looking past his shoulder to the front of the cafe.

"It's Tom," she said.

"Oh." He thought for a moment it was something interesting, like a group of Russian mobsters with automatic weapons or maybe a rampaging lion escaped from the zoo. "Is he with anyone?"

"Some bloke in a business suit, probably a client or a new employee or something," she said, sliding down in her seat as much as she could.

"Molly, you're not a heroine in a rom-com, you're going to slide off the chair and end up flat on your arse on the floor. Here, hold my hand so he gets jealous."

"Do you even listen to yourself?" she hissed, straightening and lacing her fingers with his over the table.

He let his expression soften into something affectionate, besotted; it was the way he felt around her most of the time anyway, so it wasn't hard to fake. "There's a fine line between cliche and classic," he flirted. "You could make a bit more of an effort."

Molly gave him a flat look that spoke to just how unimpressed she was, which actually worked rather well in its own way because it's a look he'd seen her direct at The Ex rather frequently.

"So we're actually doing this? You know this is exactly why he and I split in the first place."

"No, you split because he was an insufferable dullard and quantity didn't make up for quality in the bedroom." At her incredulous look, he added, "Your words, not mine."

"My words to _Mary Watson_ ," she gritted out. "Fuck-fuck-fuck, here he comes."

"That's what she sai—" Molly kicked him under the table. Hard.

"Molly, hi," Tom enthused, loping over to the table like a poodle on stilts. "Sherlock," he smiled, sticking out his hand.

Nothing for it, he supposed, slipping his hand from Molly's (rather conspicuously) and standing to shake Tom's hand and be introduced to his very dull, boring, non-Russian-mafia-or-zookeeper shadow. Molly got a very quick, polite hug and a handshake from the [something finance, banker's hours, has a car, boring boring boring] probably-school-friend.

Introductions; oh, your name is Tom too, oh Thom with an 'h', haha; small talk small talk; yes, we were just at the British Museum, Molly was looking over some bones with a colleague, even ancient murders can shed light on modern forensics; The Work is always interesting, always something new; oh, you've been keeping up with the blog, John does so love to exaggerate, hahaha; yes yes, good to see you again. His face felt like it was going to fall off from all the plastic smiles. Tom and other-Thom moved to find themselves a table and Molly almost collapsed with the relief of it.

"You could have put your arm around me or something," Molly said after they were safely out of earshot.

"That would oversell it, make me look insecure. Obviously I have nothing to be insecure about, considering I won. I'm a gracious winner."

"Right, because you never gloat about anything. Like the time you won Uno. Or Snakes and Ladders. Or Battleship, which you only won because you cheated."

"Everyone cheats at Battleship. It's like poker, it's all about the bluff."

She gave him another Look, so he took her hand again. He was keeping an eye on the Toms-squared just to make sure they were watching. They weren't. The Ex didn't really even seem to care, too absorbed in his old school friend to notice much of anything.

She didn't need to know that. She couldn't see them, after all. "You could fawn over me a bit," he said.

"What about not overselling it?"

"Well _I_ couldn't oversell it, but it's almost expected of you. You want to show you've moved on so you'll overcompensate to prove it. It's what you do."

"Do I?" she asked, cocking her head and raising her eyebrows in a way that said he was skating on thin ice.

"'Jim wasn't my boyfriend, we only went out three times, I ended it,'" he said, doing his best impersonation of her. It was actually rather good, he thought, almost as good as his John. Always harder to nail a falsetto, though.

"You can't remember Greg Lestrade's name, but you can quote something I said three years ago verbatim."

Bollocks. He only remembered because his comeback had been particularly witty. And because he'd inadvertently committed as much of that day to memory as possible and replayed it in the two years he was away, as it was a turning point of sorts. Not that he was in any way sentimental about that kind of thing.

"It was about Moriarty, I remembered everything about Moriarty in case it was useful." Decent save.

"Uh huh." She stared at him.

"He keeps glancing over here—" it was a lie "—you should do something."

"Like what? I'm already holding your hand. Shall I come sit in your lap?"

 _Oh God yes please._ "I don't know, laugh or something. Look happy. Like you actually want to be here with me. Or maybe just like you don't want to reach across the table and strangle me."

"Those three things aren't mutually exclusive. It's pretty much its own state of being, the Germans probably have a word for it."

Molly's thumb brushed over his, sending a shiver down his spine that wasn't just from the too-light touch. He chewed the corner of his lip, thinking that now would be either the best or the worst time for The Ex to actually look over at them.

"Have we sat here long enough for it not to be weird if we left?" Molly asked.

"You haven't finished your sandwich," he pointed out. Really, now that he had the chance, he was going to make the most of it.

"Kinda not hungry any longer. I'll just take it home and finish it later," she said, sliding her hand free from his to get her handbag. She produced an evidence bag and stuffed the rest of her sandwich and chips into it, then took the chips he had left on his plate.

He was pretty sure she wouldn't do that on an actual date, but she would in a long-term relationship. He shot a smug look to Tom-and-Tomtoo, but they still weren't paying attention.

After they stood, he held out his hand for her to take while Molly twisted and gave The Ex one last little dorky-polite wave (God she was so cute he couldn't stand it sometimes, he just wanted to chew on her head like a lion, which—oddly—seemed to be the theme of the day for him, maybe he'd ask her to go to the zoo sometime). Molly interlaced her fingers with his and he led her from the cafe with his own parting look to The Ex; the thinned lips and narrowed eyes were every bit as satisfying as he thought they'd be.

They didn't get a cab right away; it was a bit overcast but not too hot for the height of summer and walking seemed like the thing to do. He didn't let her hand drop and Molly didn't pull away; he wasn't going to let himself read too much into it. They'd both pretend they'd forgot or that it hadn't happened at all. That was alright, though; little victories.

 


	21. "I can't stand seeing you like this."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by an anon: I just saw this drabble challenge thing. Idk if you're still doing it, if you are, then 70(I can't stand seeing you like this) please. Thank you.
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.)

"I can't stand seeing you like this," Sherlock said mournfully, standing behind the sofa and peering down at her.

"I can't stand _being_ like this," she moaned.

"And yet..."

"It was a chocolate fountain! I couldn't help it! Oh God I'm dying."

"Serves you right. Any more and I would have had to roll you out of there like an oompa loompa."

"I'm never being your fake-date again."

"Oh, I don't think that's a concern. Between the two of us we've ensured I won't be required to attend any Holmes family functions in the foreseeable future."

"That was a lot of Fs."

"Yes it was. Are you still drunk?"

She held up her thumb and forefinger about a quarter-inch apart. She squinted at it, then widened the gap to half an inch.

"Wonderful. You really should take that dress off—"

"Are you trying to get me out of my clothes? Because I'm hearing a 'should,' and that is not a way to get a girl naked."

"—before you stain the sofa."

She held out her arms and wiggled her fingers. "Pull me up, oompa loompa."

"I'm not coming anywhere near you when you're covered in chocolate. I have respect for my clothing."

"My dress is ruined," she sighed.

"Good thing it only cost you two pound fifty at Oxfam."

"That makes it worse! It was such a score," she lamented. "And just wear a bin liner like a poncho. It was your cousin Sybil's fault anyway, she was the one who had the idea to just ladle it into the champagne glasses."

"One, flutes," Sherlock said, holding up a finger. "Two, she was the only one drunker than you—at least, inside the catering tent. Three, her name—for the last time—is not Sybil. It's Millie."

"But she looks like Lady Sybil. After she cut her hair."

"What can I give you to stop talking?" he asked, looking at the ceiling.

"What have you got?"

"A sock and duct tape," he enunciated.

"Kinky bugger. Are you staying tonight, by the way?"

"Might as well, Mrs. Hudson won't be back from Corsica for another week and I'm out of food."

"She just left the day before yesterday."

"Yes, and I'll be dead of starvation before she gets back."

"Actually, with your body mass, I'd give you a month with adequate hydration. You're deceptively muscular."

Sherlock looked like he couldn't decide if that was a compliment or an insult. He wisely said nothing.

Molly folded her hands over her slightly-rounder stomach. "Bleh, why did I eat so much cheesecake?"

"Because you have the self-control of a rat in a Skinner Box. If left unchecked, you and Mycroft would have cleared the entire dessert table."

"I wonder if I could beat him in a pie-eating contest."

"That's something I would pay money not to have to witness," Sherlock said, finally walking away from the sofa.

He returned a few minutes later to push a fizzing glass of Alka-Seltzer into her hands. "Drink. I don't want your moaning keeping me up all night."

Molly hauled herself into a sitting position. "Nope, too easy. Cheers," she said, raising the glass before taking a sip and making a face.

Sherlock swiped the remote off the coffee table and clicked on the telly as he flopped down next to her. He pulled at his already-loosened tie and sighed, worn out from the day. "Good show on tripping my cousin Kath to get the bouquet, by the way. She put gum in my hair when I was eleven."

"Had I known that I would have thrown an elbow, too. That's just a crime against humanity."

Sherlock smirked.

 

 


	22. “You can’t make up for it by giving me a tic-tac.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by stlgeekgirl: Drabble challange. Sherlolly # 105 (“You can’t make up for it by giving me a tic-tac.”) :D 
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.)

"Alright, yes, I'm sorry dinner got... delayed. Here," Sherlock said, dramatically lit by the flashing blue and white lights from the squad cars. He pulled a plastic box from his coat pocket.

“You can’t make up for it by giving me a Tic-Tac,” Molly said, watching the restaurant owner being led out in handcuffs.

"Well, I'm sorry I don't carry around chicken tikka and naan in my coat," Sherlock said, shaking a few Tic-Tacs into her hand.

Molly popped them in her mouth and immediately made a face. "And they're _apple_. Who over the age of ten buys apple?"

"The shop was out of strawberry."

"And you couldn't get mint?"

"Had I anticipated this situation I would have got sweets appropriate to the occasion," he said with an edge of annoyance in his tone. "You're like a honey badger when you're hungry."

Greg chose that moment to amble over. "You two need a ride to the station or are you following in a cab?"

"We'll go with you—"

"We'll get a cab—" they said in unison.

They had some kind of silent conversation with their eyes until Sherlock relented. " _Fine_ , we'll ride with you. But I get to ride in the front."

"Donovan's with me, you both ride in the back."

"Wonderful," Sherlock muttered.

*

"I've never been in the back of a police car before," Molly said, fingering the mesh divider. She scooted to the middle of the seat so she could see out the windscreen. "Will you run the siren?"

Sherlock slouched down even further and buried his face in his coat collar. "I'm never taking you to dinner again," he muttered.

"Need I remind you that _you_ picked the restaurant? That _just happened_ to be owned by a serial poisoner? You could have at least waited until after we ate."

"At a restaurant owned by a serial poisoner. You don't see anything wrong with that statement?"

"You said it was only pets."

"And psychopaths _never_ escalate."

Donovan snorted from the front seat.

"So you two—" Greg said loudly, before Donovan could make another comment. "Is this a thing now?"

"Oh, no, I wasn't helping on a case or anything this time, we were only going to get something to eat. My shift just ended and I didn't feel like cooking."

"Ah," Greg said, her answer having clarified exactly nothing.

*

"Wouldn't eat that," Donovan said just as Molly was about to take a bite of the donut she'd got from the break room. "The last person in the box was McCarthy, and he doesn't wash his hands after using the gents."

Molly dropped the donut back onto the sheet of kitchen roll she'd carried it out in. "Thanks," she said faintly.

Sherlock rattled the box of Tic-Tacs at her; she swiped it from his hand and upended it into her mouth. There were only a half dozen or so left anyway.

"Honey badger," he said, as though he'd proved a point.

Molly narrowed her eyes at him and crunched her Tic-Tacs.

*

"So, chips?" Sherlock said as they walked down the steps outside the building.

"I would eat Marmite spread on cardboard at this point."

"I'll remember that the next time you complain there's nothing to eat in my flat."

"I'm sure you will," she said. "I wouldn't put it past you to serve me cardboard-Marmite canapés with Tic-Tacs for garnish."

"Well I won't _now_. Nice save in the car, by the way."

"I wasn't exactly going to say 'oh, you know, it's our first real date, so we're not really ready to put a label on it.'"

"Pretty terrible first date," Sherlock said. His hands were stuffed in his pockets and he looked up at the sky; he was trying to act casual and failing miserably.

"Trust me, I've been on worse. This doesn't even crack top ten."

"I can live with that," he said, slipping an arm around her shoulders.

 


	23. "Everyone keeps telling me you're the bad guy"/ "He thinks he's a mind reader"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by optimus-pam: If you're still taking drabble prompts I'd be happy with any of the following: 7) Everyone keeps telling me you're the bad guy; 54) He thinks he's a mind reader; or 71) Me and the boys will handle it. If possible, could it somehow feature Wiggins calling/implying Molly is Sherlock's "missus?" I have a particular fondness for that trope :) Please and thank you in advance if you have a chance to get to this! I love ALL your amazing work!
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.)

"What's he doing?" Molly asked, peering around Wiggins into the lounge from the landing.

"He finks he's'a min' reader," he answered, sounding annoyed.

"I'm not a mind reader, I'm utilizing a complex internal algorithm to successfully predict—"

"Are you high again?" she asked, ready to be extremely angry contingent upon his answer.

" _No_ ," he said emphatically. He didn't elaborate, which meant he either didn't want to get caught in a lie or he was genuinely offended she'd even asked. Hard to tell.

"So why is your bodyguard blocking the door?"

"Oh for—Let her in. I told him I wasn't to be disturbed and no one was allowed in."

"Even the Missus," Wiggins said gravely, moving aside just enough so that she could slip by.

"For the last time, not actually married," Sherlock said, springing up to his feet from where he'd been sat cross-legged on the floor. He tilted his head side to side and shook out his arms; she wondered how long he'd been sitting there.

"Or, y'know, together," she said, mostly to herself. She wasn't sure, but a hint of a shadow passed over his features at that. She shouldn't have made it weird, but that was her stock-in-trade. "Just thought I'd pop round and see how things were going."

"Mycroft sent you to spy on me again?"

"No. I haven't talked to him this week at a—" Her phone blared the chorus of 'Queen Bitch,' Mycroft's ringtone. Set by Sherlock, _again_. She had no idea how he did it, she never let him alone with her phone. Ever.

He gave her a smug look.

"He's probably just monitoring the CCTV again and saw me come in," she said, letting the call go to voicemail.

"Nope, budget meetings all day and shift change for his flying monkeys, no one would have seen you come in."

She narrowed her eyes and cocked her head, trying to determine the truth of that statement, then gave it up for a bad job and walked past him into the kitchen, which was still (thankfully) free of any drug-cooking apparatus. "If you must know why I'm here, I brought you a present," she said, dropping her bag on the table and going for the kettle.

"Ooh, what is it?" Sherlock said, at her side in an instant.

"Didn't predict it with your algorithm?"

"Still working out the kinks. Now, present?"

She fished in her trouser pocket and held up a plastic vial before handing it over.

Sherlock rattled it, then popped the cap to look inside. "Wow, it's huge! This is the biggest one yet! Cystine? Ooh, and it looks like a goldfish. This one's going in the shadow box," he said, practically bouncing toward his bedroom.

Only he would get so excited over a kidney stone. Well, she did too, because it _was_ huge, and rare, and it was her job. And it did look like a goldfish. One of the fat ones with the gross bulging eyes.

He turned at the bathroom and bounded back, dipping to press a kiss to her cheek. "Thank you," he said, grinning, before disappearing again.

She smiled to herself, glad she could make him happy. Positive reinforcement; he'd been clean a month and three days. Kind of a belated milestone gift, even thematically appropriate. Milestones, kidney stones... No idea why people thought she was weird.

"Wiggins, tea," she called into the lounge.

He appeared at her opposite shoulder and she startled; he must have come through the kitchen door, or—equally likely—apparated there from his position on the landing.

"Thank you, Missus," he said solemnly, accepting his mug.

"Oh, did I miss the vicar? No? Still not married," Sherlock bellowed from his bedroom.

"May as well be, way ya take care'a 'im," he said, blowing on his mug.

She made a little noise of agreement. He was probably the only one that saw it that way.

She didn't exactly like Wiggins, though she didn't hate him like the others did. After everything had been over, she'd seen his workups for Sherlock, how he'd calculated dosages and monitored him to make sure he was alright ( _alright_ being relative). She couldn't help but respect him just a little bit; she mourned whatever circumstances in life had led him away from what could have been a promising career in medicine or chemistry, had he gone to university.

"Everyone keeps telling me you're the bad guy," she thought out loud, immediately regretting it.

"'S'alright. Get that a lot."

"Oh no, I didn't mean—"

"Yes you did, but he's really not offended," Sherlock said, swooping in to grab his mug. "Are you, Wiggins?"

"No," he said, face blank and honest, a bit distant like he always was.

"What was the cause of death?" Sherlock asked, switching gears without taking his foot off the gas, just like he always did.

"Hit by a bus."

"I'm sure they'd be grateful if they'd lived long enough to pass it. Wiggins, go home," Sherlock said.

"Rude. I haven't even finished my tea."

"Here," Sherlock said, shoving a £50 note at him. "Buy tea. Go."

Wiggins shrugged and set his mug on the table, leaving without a word.

"You could be a bit nicer to him," Molly said.

"I could be a lot of things." Sherlock sipped his tea and made a face. "I think the milk's gone off. Want to see the shadowbox?"

"You know I've seen everything in there. Because I gave them to you."

"Yes, but you haven't seen them _arranged_ ," he said, already starting for the bedroom again.

He had her there; she followed him back to see all the things she'd dug out of people artfully displayed on black velvet. She wondered if he'd been this cute as a child, all springy curls and rosy cheeks and enthusiasm.

"Nope, cuter," he tossed over his shoulder.

"What?" She pulled up short.

"Algorithm."

 _Don't picture him naked, don't picture him naked_ —

"Really, Molly?"

Anybody could have guessed that. It was human nature.

"If you say so," he said holding up his shadowbox proudly.

_I hate you._

"You really don't."

Yeah, fine, she didn't. She clamped down hard on the next thought before she had a chance to have it, just in case.

"Tinfoil's still in the cupboard, if you feel the need to make a hat."

_Arse._

"And we're back to that again."

She narrowed her eyes at him.

*

 _Really_ , he thought, _it's just too easy sometimes_.

Of course he couldn't read minds or even predict what people were thinking (well, he could, a bit). Molly was so transparent birds flew into her.

And, well, if she said ' _oh, Sherlock, I woke up today able to read minds,_ ' he knew exactly what _his_ first thought would be.


	24. “Quit it or I’ll bite.” / “D..did you just make that noise?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by mistykins06 :If you are looking for requests from the prompt list, might I be so bold as to suggest number 9 (“Quit it or I’ll bite.”) paired with number 20 (“D..did you just make that noise?”)? 
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.)

"So I mean—" Molly began.

"Don't. say it."

"I'm not going to say I told you so—"

"Aaaand you're saying it anyway..."

"But I really, actually did."

**3 hours earlier**

"Hiding in a wardrobe. To wait for an arsonist. Sounds like a great plan. I mean, there's no way the door would stick and we'd end up stuck inside. Except, oh yeah, the door will probably stick and we'll get stuck inside."

"You do know the difference between telly and real life." It was a question.

"I know that I want my tombstone to read 'Here lies Molly Hooper, burned to death because Sherlock Holmes is a complete and utter tit.'"

"And yet _I'm_ the drama queen."

**Now**

"If it's any consolation, I don't think he's going to show," Sherlock said, his knee knocking against her shin while he shifted into a slightly less uncomfortable position.

"Oh yes, I feel so much better now. No one texted back yet?"

"You're less than a foot from my phone, did you _hear_ my text alert?"

"You know, maybe if you didn't delete everyone else's texts, they might read yours."

"I don't delete _everyone's_. Just the ones that start with 'hi,' and that's only because no one starts a text with 'hi' except my mobile carrier and I don't need to read a text confirming that I just paid my bill online or whatever other nonsense they send."

Molly made a little noise in the back of her throat to concede the point. After a beat of silence, she said, "God I hope somebody phones back soon. I really need a wee."

"Is this a thing with you and wardrobes?"

"Okay, two things. One, that was _one time_. And B, you weren't there, so you don't know."

Sherlock opened his mouth so say something, thought better of it, and closed it again with a click of his teeth. "Hand me my phone, I'm going to try texting again," he said after a moment.

"I don't want to get up. What did I just say about the state of my bladder? And why did you feel the need to hang your jacket anyway?"

"I didn't want it to get wrinkled. And it's hot enough in here already."

"Well, maybe if you'd stop blowing all that hot air..."

"Phone."

"Get it yourself."

"Fine," he huffed. He groped along the back of the wardrobe while he got to his knees, leaning more of his weight on Molly than was probably strictly necessary as he patted down the fabric of his jacket to find the pocket.

"Gah, your hair feels like spiderwebs on my face," she said, wiggling a hand between them to try and push him away.

"Oh, this?" he asked, turning his head slowly to drag the ends of his curls against the side of her face.

"Eugh, staaaaahp," she said, trying to lean as far away as possible.

"Stop what?" he asked, following her.

"Quit it or I'll bite... your—your ear! Or your nose. Staaaaahp!"

And then she turned her face and bit him. On the ear.

Sherlock froze. It wasn't a hard bite, but a play-bite. He swallowed and hoped like hell she didn't move a muscle or she'd find out exactly how he felt about getting bitten on the ear.

A throaty moan echoed through the wardrobe; they both jumped, Molly's canine catching the shell of his ear rather painfully as her mouth pulled away.

"Di...did you just make that noise?" He suppressed a shiver as her breath blew over his ear.

"It's my phone."

"Again? Really?"

"It's probably John or Mary. There's something wrong with the phone, it keeps assigning random tones to different people. I think The Woman gave me a virus."

"Too easy, I am _not_ touching that."

"She said the same thing," he lamented.

"Would you just get your damn phone and get off of me?"

"She said that, too."

"More than I wanted to know..." Molly said to herself. She clamped her eyes shut when the screen lit up the inside of the wardrobe. "Christ, warn a girl before you do that. And before you say 'that's what she said' one more time, consider the position of my knee."

"Has anyone ever told you you're no fun? Lestrade's on his way up, by the way."

"Oh thank God. And I'll have you know I can be quite a lot of fun."

He wasn't sure if the way her knee brushed his inner thigh was intentional or just really, really bad (or good, depending) timing. He was saved from ever finding out by Lestrade.

"Sherlock, Molly, you two in here?"

"Yes," Sherlock called.

"That was my ear," Molly said, wincing.

"Well you bit mine, hardly any worse."

"I'm never coming on a case with you again."

"What about after a case?"

"I—what?"

"What?" he asked innocently.

The door squealed open to reveal Lestrade, Donovan, and two uniforms Sherlock didn't recognize. Really, that was just a bit of overkill, he thought.

"You two, ah, need a minute?"

"Sure hope it takes longer than that," Molly said under her breath.

Sherlock pulled away and climbed out of the wardrobe, then offered Molly a hand to help her out. He sniffed the air, was that—?

"Lestrade, I believe if you go to the room across the hall, you'll find your arsonist," Sherlock said.

Lestrade gave him one of his _how the fuck—?_ looks before turning and tromping after the other three.

"So about that 'after a case' thing..." Molly said.

Sherlock was about to reply when the fire alarm went off.

"Seriously?" he said, looking up at the ceiling as though it would stop the alarm.

"How long until management checks the room?" Molly asked.

"This one's technically vacant. They probably won't."

"So we've got all night?"

"Yes..."

"Good," Molly said. "We're going to need it."

 

 


	25. “I’m pregnant.”/ “I thought it was a one-night-stand…and now we’re married…”/ “We’ve become the clingy couple that you used to complain about.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by an anon: Hello not the anonymous of before. You could make one (or all, your decision) of these prompts 12 (“I’m pregnant.”), 47 (“I thought it was a one-night-stand…and now we’re married…”), 48 (“We’ve become the clingy couple that you used to complain about.”). Thank you, I love your writing. 
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked. Also, assume television-level realism with the medical bits, here.)

"I'm still recovering. _No._ "

"It wasn't even a major surgery. There won't be any running or climbing fences or getting shot at while hiding behind a hotel bar," Sherlock said, pulling one of Molly's nicer (and more subtle) dresses from her wardrobe. "This time. Hopefully," he amended.

"Like I haven't heard _that_ one before. And, just to be clear, it was a fairly major surgery, seeing as my _appendix_ almost _ruptured_ and _killed_ me."

"Like a week ago. You went to work yesterday."

"I sat in my office and played Candy Crush most of the day."

"And _that_ is why the NHS is in such bad shape."

She gave him a Look, but grabbed the dress he held out. "Don't go far, I'll need you to zip me."

Sherlock, ever the gentleman, turned his back. If he happened to be facing the mirror, well, that was hardly his fault.

Molly shimmied on the dress and turned her back to him. "Zip," she ordered, holding her hair to the side.

Sherlock did as he was told, encountering resistance just past her lower back. "Suck it in," he grunted, struggling with the zip. "Maybe lay off the Ben & Jerry's for a bit."

"It's the air in my abdomen, you lump."

"Weeelllll—" He squinted and cocked his head.

"It is!"

The zip finally gave and he pulled it up the rest of the way. "Put your make-up on in the cab, we've got a half-hour to get there and it's in Westminster."

*

"Oh, no thanks, I can't. I'm pregnant," Molly said when their rather unpleasant dowager host tried to push a glass of champagne on her for the thousandth time; a cocktail of antibiotics and pain medication were about the only thing that would make her turn down a drink. "I thought it was a one-night-stand…and now we’re married…" she tittered, twisting the ring he'd given her ages ago for just such occasions.

Sherlock groaned inwardly, even if it was a good cover. The distension of her abdomen really did make her look about four months gone, especially with the heels.

"And I knew from the moment I saw you there would never be anyone else for me," he said with a plastic smile. The most convincing lies started with a grain of truth, after all. His fingers twitched against her lower back.

*

"Probably should have got our story straight in the cab," he said as they moved around the dance floor. "Ow! For Christ's sake, would you stop trying to lead?"

"I can't help it. I went to an all-girls' school, when we learned this it was always the taller one who led," she hissed.

"And you were the taller one." he asked flatly.

"My partner was the Indonesian exchange student."

"Mm. Oh! This could work. Steer me into the one over there, midlife-crisis contemplating an affair."

"Hair plugs?"

"That's the one," he said. "And hold on tight when I dip you. I don't need you falling and making a scene. Again."

"If I pop a stitch..."

"They're disolvable anyway."

He let Molly waltz him over to Hairplugs and dipped her.

"Oh God, one of my boobs just fell out of my bra," she said as he held her there while he lifted Hairplugs' phone.

"That's what you get for going with demi-cup," he said, unable to even sneak a peek because of the cut of her dress.

"You said there wouldn't be any running, I thought it was safe," she said, wiggling her shoulders and arching her back when he pulled her upright. "Yep, there we go."

Sherlock used Hairplugs' phone to send a text and discarded it in a potted palm on the edge of the dance floor. "And now we wait," he said.

*

"At least we're not behind the bar this time," Sherlock said, moving the tablecloth aside to peer between two chairs.

"No we are not," Molly said, flicking the broken heel of her shoe with one finger. "How long until our extraction?"

"Oh for—this isn't a spy film. We're not getting an extraction."

"Wait, that's a real thing?"

"In theory. Usually just easier to let the agent die in the field. Neater."

"Remind me never to get on your brother's bad side."

"He doesn't have any other side. He's like a sphere. Ooh, I have to remember to try to work that into conversation next time he's on a diet. Maybe something about a beach ball, but they're an irregular polyhedron... Oh bollocks. Molly, I may have misrepresented the possibility of running."

"I can't run in a broken shoe!"

"Then do it barefoot."

"There's glass all over the floor!"

"They're at the other side of the dining room and they're checking tables. Shift!"

*

They blended in with the other party guests that had been herded to safety; he had yet to put Molly down because there was broken glass _everywhere_. He supposed with no waiting staff they were just dropping their empty champagne flutes on the ground like it was Glastonbury.

And then they got cornered by the host again, still none-the-wiser that he was, in fact, who the Portuguese hit men had been looking for until Mycroft's B-team finally showed up. The old prune made some kind of sniffy comment about how darling it was that he was so chivalrous; he had no idea how she made it sound like an insult, but she did.

“We’ve become the clingy couple that you used to complain about,” he said, looking down at Molly with an expression he hoped was suitably besotted.

"Heh heh heh, oh _you_ ," Molly said, giving his shoulder a playful not-so-little push. The shoulder she knew he'd banged on the table when he'd pulled her under it. Not only was she a terrible actress, she was a terrible human being. And freakishly strong for her size, but he already knew that.

Finally he put her down and let her lean on him while she stood on the one foot with an intact shoe like a flamingo; it was either that or drop her. He wisely refrained from reiterating his Ben & Jerry's comment from earlier.

*

He got the text that their car had arrived; he carried her all the way out of the building because it was easier than putting her down in the lobby only to pick her back up again before they exited the building.

Mycroft's assistant was inside waiting; she pushed a pale pink shopping bag tied with a ribbon at Molly.

"What's this?"

"Shoes. Consider them hazard pay," she said, actually taking the time to look up and smile before going back to her phone.

"Wow," Molly said. "Thank you."

"Should be thanking me, I'm the one that brought you," he grumped, looking out the window.

*

"You don't need me to carry you, you have shoes now."

"I don't want to get them dirty."

"They're _shoes_ , Molly. You put them on your feet so your feet don't get dirty."

"They're _£_ _400_ shoes. My _sofa_ didn't cost £400!"

"Yes, I know, I've sat on it. Certainly get what you pay for," he muttered. "Fine." He scooped her up and carried her up the stairs to the door.

"Don't disappear right away. I'm going to need you to unzip me," she said, letting them in her flat.

"Don't worry, the only place I'm going is the bathroom. My back is killing me—no idea why—and I need a good soak. And I'm using the good bath salts," he said, unzipping her dress after she put her bags down.

"My God, we really _are_ an old married couple," Molly said, heading for the kitchen.

"Skipped the one night stand, though," he said before he could stop himself.

"Give me like three weeks and I'll get back to you on that," she said, patting her stomach. Then she realized what she was doing. "Maybe not the, ah, other thing, though."

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, looking for the perfect witty rejoinder, something about that requiring more practice or... something; he came up empty. "Right, I'll be in the bath if you need me." As soon as the bathroom door was closed behind him, he pulled up the calendar on his phone and set a reminder for exactly three weeks in the future.

 

****geekmama asked for three weeks later, so here it is. just a little bit, got to keep the T rating.****

 

"What was that?"

"My phone."

"Yes," she said, the _well, duh_ implied. "I've never heard that tone before. Didn't know you were a Rod Stewart fan. Or wait, is that actually Rod Stewart? Are you doing a case for Rod Stewart?"

"I—" he began to scramble to cover the reason he picked that particular song for the reminder notice. Then his brain caught up with what she actually said. " _No_ , I'm not 'doing a case' for Rod Stewart. Why, if I had a case for _any_ musician, popular or otherwise, would I use _their music_ as a notification on my phone?"

"I don't know, you do weird things all the time."

"Weird, but not _tacky_."

Molly made a little noise of _point taken_ and went back to flipping through her magazine.

"So about that night three weeks ago..."

"If your brother wants the shoes back, he can't have them. I already wore them, anyway."

"Wh—no you didn't. You didn't wear them."

"Around the house counts."

And of course he had to picture it; Molly in her unicorn pyjamas and Jimmy Choos quickly morphed into Molly in Jimmy Choos and nothing else. Which wasn't really helping his nerves.

His phone helpfully supplied him with another reminder from Hot Rod. It would keep doing that until he went into the notifications and disabled it.

He argued to distract Molly from his sudden cageyness. It worked about one third of the time. "Mycroft doesn't want the shoes back. They're not even his size."

"So what was the notification for?"

"What notification?"

"Rod Stewart, you said it was a notification."

"Oh, ah, probably just a reminder to pay my mobile bill," he said, fighting the urge to fidget.

"Ah," she said, dog-earing the page of her magazine before setting it aside. Her respect for printed matter was appalling. Margin notes were one thing, but structural integrity was another. "Well, I'm off to bed, I think. You coming?"

 _Probably not_ , he thought morosely. His window of opportunity had closed.

"Not really tired," he said. He preferred to brood for a bit.

"Neither am I."

"But you just said—Ohhhh."

"Subtlety... not really one of your strong points. 'Tonight's the Night?' Really?"

"It was thematically appropriate," he defended. "So, in fact, you do remember what you said three weeks ago."

"I'm even wearing my nice underwear."

"That's like telling someone you bought them socks for Christmas but stopping short at telling them the color."

"Do you actually want to see them or not? Because, I mean, we can keep talking, or..." She looked toward the stairs.

"I'll take the 'or...' please."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I cheated with this; it’s a heavily remixed and condensed version of a scene from one of my unfinished post-TRF stories.)  
> ETA: see the next chapter for said scene.


	26. Unpublished Fic Scene: Fake Date/ Broken Shoe/ Sherlock Is Clumsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scene from an unpublished fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the scene I borrowed heavily from for the last chapter. Also from the same piece as the scene from Chapter 4 (Unpublished Fic Scene: First Kiss) in this fic. I wrote this sometime in the spring of 2012, before Longer Than the Road.
> 
> Kinda-sorta requested by OhAine and Jazz221. Also Unbeta'd and unBritpicked.

*

9 August 2012

 

Sherlock shows up early in the evening laden with carrier bags and parcels. He goes straight for her bedroom.

 

"Sherlock?" she asks, trailing after him. She shouldn't be surprised by anything anymore, she thinks, but she is.

 

He dumps the bags onto the bed into a jumble of cosmetics, toiletries, and frilly knickers.

 

"There's a car coming at seven," he says, tugging open the ribbon on a boutique box. He pulls out a dress and holds it up to her, considers, nods, and casts it aside in the space of a heartbeat before picking up bottles of shower gel, shampoo, and conditioner and pushing them at her. He steers her towards the bathroom.

 

"What's going on?" she asks. He nudges her into the bathroom and stops on the other side of the threshold.

 

He looks annoyed with having to explain it to her. "Shower with these, you're having dinner with a very nice older man from Croydon who thinks you're an escort. Oh, don't make that face, it's just dinner, he's discreetly gay with an image to maintain."

 

"Wha-?"

 

"Plenty of time for your questions after, off you pop," he says, turning on his heel and disappearing from the doorway. "Make sure you do something about that three-day stubble," he calls from the hallway.

 

On reflex, she looks down at her legs. She's wearing jeans, so how did he know when she'd last shaved her legs?

 

_It's a bit much_ , she thinks, turning on the water. _An escort._

 

She's got shampoo in her hair when Sherlock comes into the bathroom again. She can hear him pawing through the medicine cabinet.

 

"What are you doing?" she calls over the water.

 

"Tweezers," he answers.

 

"Cosmetics bag," she shouts. _I'm naked and soaking wet with Sherlock Holmes less than three feet away from me, this should be the happiest moment of my life. Please, dear God, do not let me slip and crack my head open on the tile, at least until after he's out of the room_ , she thinks a bit hysterically.

 

Fifteen minutes later, she's only in a bra and pyjama bottoms with a towel around her shoulders and Sherlock is inches from her face, cleaning up her wayward eyebrows.

 

"Stop flinching," he chides.

 

He plucks a few more hairs, then stands back and scrutinizes his work before picking up a container of loose powder.

 

"Close your eyes," he says, loading up the brush.

 

"I can do this part myself," she says.

 

"The point is for you to look like a ₤1000 a night escort, not a fourteen year old convent school girl on her first date," he says.

 

It stings, it always does, and she'd almost forgotten he could be like this. She obediently closes her eyes and tries not to hate him or herself for the moment.

 

The brush swipes over her face in feather-light strokes. "I don't know why you bother with make-up, you're more attractive without it. That chalk-white foundation you use makes you look like you belong in a Camden record shop buying Cure albums," he says absently.

 

She can't help but smile; she wouldn't have expected him to make any kind of pop-culture reference, if John's blog was anything to go by. And the first part... She's just not going to think about it at all, because she's sure it's just a nicer version of 'your mouth is too small'.

 

She keeps her eyes closed and hears the clink of the plastic brush handle on the vanity as he exchanges it for another. His hands are gentle and precise and she can't help but wonder where he learned to do this.

 

"Relax your mouth a bit, part your lips," he murmurs.

 

Molly's treacherous body responds to his intimate tone and she breaks out in goosebumps. Her nipples tighten at the first touch of the lipstick brush on the swell of her bottom lip and it's all she can do not to gasp.

 

Sherlock steps back abruptly once he's finished and clears his throat. He looks uncomfortable and she's sure it's because he knows the effect he's just had on her and she thinks she's going to die right then and there.

 

"Right, I'll just leave you to get dressed," he says, then flees the bathroom.

 

She thinks the stockings are real silk when she slides them on. She's never worn actual stockings before, only tights, and she fiddles a bit with the clips on the suspenders before she gets them right. She slips the on dress, then pads out to the lounge because the flipping thing feels like it's about six sizes too small and she can't get the zip by herself.

 

He's shifted back to his normal self and he barely touches her when he does the zip and tugs the shoulders to sit right, talking as he does so. "Now, when you get to the table, I need you to switch on the recorder in your bag..."

 

Molly thinks she's seen this in a film at some point. She hopes she doesn't end up getting shot at.

 

*

 

She taps out the tune to 'Friday I'm in Love' on the handbag clutched in her lap. She's had a medley of songs by The Cure and, strangely, 'Pretty Woman' running through her head all night. Her dress is ruined and she's missing a shoe, but it could have been worse, she thinks.

 

"You could've told me you had something planned," she says to Sherlock, who's holding a can of Coke to his jaw. He's lucky he didn't crack any teeth.

 

The woman in the seat across from them snorts without looking up from her mobile.

 

Sherlock sneers at her, then looks out the window.

 

*

 

Molly sits in an uncomfortable chair that looks like it belongs in a museum while she waits for her turn with the headmaster. Or, at least, that's what it feels like. It speaks to the quality of the soundproofing of the room that she can't make out what Sherlock is bellowing at his brother.

 

The door opens and Sherlock tugs her out of the chair by her arm, then drags her along behind him toward the door. She slides a bit in her stockings on the polished marble, but she keeps up. He drops her arm once they're outside and stalks to the kerb.

 

She thinks he must have some kind of precognition or a taxi-hailing superpower when a cab rounds the corner seconds later. His face is thunderous as he ushers her into the cab, then shoulders in next to her.

 

He follows her into her flat and throws himself on her sofa with her laptop. She reckons it's best not to ask about any of it and goes into the kitchen to make coffee. She digs a bag of frozen broccoli out of the freezer and takes it to him wrapped in a tea towel, along with his mug (and it's sort of become his mug, she thinks, since she uses it for him every time he's here).

 

She curls up on a chair and sips her coffee, reflecting on the events of the night in the detached and amused way that only exhaustion allows.

 

She still can't believe he'd had any confidence in her to pull it off, but he'd said that he knew she could lie since he'd heard her do it on the phone with Mike Stamford weeks before and really, she was only there to look nice, not speak. Everything seemed to be going fine - the restaurant was nice, Jonas was nothing but polite, everyone else at the table ignored her. She ate a few tiny bites of an entrée that cost more than her weekly food budget and sipped wine that was bottled when she was in primary school. The other man's wife didn't speak to her at all (but the looks she'd directed Molly's way said it all, she knew Molly was supposed to be an escort and she did not approve) while the men talked, and Molly tried to appear not to be listening. She could tell there was some kind of subtext to the conversation, but she was distracted by an all-too-familiar waiter passing by the table.

 

Things went very quickly from there. Sherlock 'tripped' and a whole tray of food ended up on the tabletop and in the laps of everyone sitting there. He'd obviously miscalculated the fall though, because his jaw cracked on the table on his way down. She'd seen him lift something from Jonas' coat pocket, then he looked at her and indicated the door with his eyes before scrabbling up and apologizing profusely in a Geordie accent. The other man, Hec she thinks his name was, jumped up and looked about ready to punch Sherlock before Molly sprang from her chair and started shouting that he was an idiot and did he know how much her bloody dress cost? She'd even smacked Sherlock with her handbag.

 

Then they'd had to leg it when the manager stepped in, darting through the kitchen (where he'd grabbed the can of Coke) and out into the alley where a black car sat parked. Sherlock had sworn (a proper swear, too, not some kind of vehement but benignly Victorian oath like she would have expected from him), looked behind them, then dragged her to the car (which is when she'd lost her shoe).

 

When it was happening, her heart had been in her throat and she was sure she'd be arrested, but now it's just... unreal. Truly like something from a film. She can't help but laugh. She hears noise from the sofa and looks up and Sherlock is laughing too, a quiet kind of giggle, and even as she's gasping for breath she thinks how young and utterly gorgeous he looks when he's happy.

 

 


	27. "Daddy!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by an anon: For the drabble challenge: 76 ("Daddy!"), please :3 and Thank you! 
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.)

"You're kidding," Mary said, her expression somewhere between amused and disgusted.

"Oh I wish I was," Molly said, looking down into her mug.

“Daddy!”

"Yep."

"As in, 'who's your Daddy?' or like, 'oh yeah, give it to me Daddy?'"

"Is this honestly what you two talk about all the time? Past boyfriends?" Sherlock piped up from in front of the sofa; he'd been staring at the collage of information from his latest case.

"Oh, he was _not_ a boyfriend," Molly said, her eyes going wide as she drank her tea.

"Sometimes we talk about baking cakes or our vaginas," Mary said.

"Why are you even here?"

"The baby has a cold and it's John's turn for snot duty," Mary said, taking a bite of biscuit.

"Not really sure why I'm here," Molly said. "You texted me two hours ago to come over and only grunted when I walked in the door."

"Hn. Did I?"

"You did."

"Did you bring me anything?"

"Nope," Molly said.

"Did I _ask_ you to bring me anything?"

"Nope."

Sherlock looked like he was trying to remember the reason why or the context or maybe just if he was wearing pants, then did a little shrug and head-shake thing. "Mary, go home. Molly, get your coat."

"Haven't finished my biscuits yet," Mary said with one of her fake pouts.

"Well then take them with you."

"Don't really want to go home yet," she said in the exact same tone.

"Then go downstairs and visit Mrs. Hudson. I don't want you snooping in my things."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, all innocence and sweetness.

"Sock index," he reminded.

"Yeah, that was kind of fun," Mary said, scrunching her nose.

"I had to reroll every pair and put them all back in order. Now go away. Quickly. Molly, coat."

*

"So where are we going?" Molly asked.

"I'm hungry."

"Ohhh...kay? So is this for the case, or..?"

"Taking a break."

"Ah. And, ah, why didn't you invite Mary?"

"So I wouldn't have to listen to you two talk about baking cakes or the other thing."

"Vaginas." Molly asked flatly, enjoying the way he looked ever-so-slightly uncomfortable.

"Ex-boyfriends."

"Really wasn't a boyfriend."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in a _whatever_ expression. "Chips?"

"Sure." Molly's phone chimed a text; it was from Mary.

**Could have been worse. He could have called you Mummy**

**Mrs Hudson said to tell you that. Now she's telling me a story about her ex**

Molly texted back. **Oh God, did he...?**

**Worse. Or better, depending on how you look at it**

**Wow** , Molly replied

**Yeah**

**Can't unhear this**

"And you're still talking to Mary."

"Are you jealous?" she said before thinking.

" _No_."

**Apparently he was an announcer too** , Mary texted.

**Oh, Mrs Hudson says so is Sherlock. She could hear it all the way downstairs**

"Oh my God," Molly clamped a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. Or have any feelings at all about that new piece of information.

"Oh for—what is she saying?"

"Nothing!"

"Is she in my sock drawer again? I'm going to bloody murder that woman," he said, grabbing Molly's phone from her hand.

She tried to get it back and there was a small scuffle in the middle of the pavement; Sherlock held it over his head and read it while Molly (futilely) tried to grab for it on tiptoes while pulling him down by the shoulders.

"An announcer? Announcer of what?" he asked incredulously, loud enough for people the other end of the street to hear, probably.

_Oh God why me_ , Molly thought. _Goddamn Mary_.

"Nothing, it's nothing, let's get those chips. Mm, chips, yummy," Molly said, starting off at a brisk pace towards the corner.

"Molly," he said in that warning tone of his.

"Hm? Thought you were hungry."

"Molly." It was an _I don't have time for this_.

She ignored him.

"Molly." Getting testy.

She kept walking. And then he was suddenly in front of her because he had freakishly long legs and couldn't just let something drop. She moved to walk around him and he leaned to the side, then the other, blocking her way.

"Oh for— Orgasms! An orgasm announcer!" She was pretty sure the people at the other end of the street did hear, going by the looks she got.

"What? I don't do that," he said, his face screwing up to something unpleasant. Then he used her phone to (presumably) fire off a text to Mary to tell her the same thing.

**Mrs Hudson says he's fibbing. Oh, and apparently they were in the lounge**

**It was when he was shagging Janine**

Sherlock read Mary's return texts upside down.

"I was never actually shagging Janine and I have no idea what she's... Oh." He made an unimpressed, slightly annoyed face. "Honestly."

"What?" It was more of a surprised reaction to 'was never actually shagging'; that couldn't be right, could it?

"Janine was in the bedroom and I was in the lounge and she was asking me questions, all of which I answered to the affirmative, then I got annoyed and told her I was coming just to end her snooping."

"And you remember this because...?"

"I heard drawers opening and I didn't want her to touch anything. I remember when people have been in my things so I know who to blame."

"So it was about the sock index again."

"Not only the sock index," he sniffed.

"Pants index, too?"

"Pants— Who would have a pants index?"

"Ha-ha-ha, how silly," Molly said sarcastically, because a sock index was so normal.

"I don't like people going through my things. It's like someone sticking their fingers in my mouth." He shuddered for emphasis.

"You've had me fetch things for you from your bedroom like a thousand times. Including your wardrobe and your chest of drawers."

"You're not people."

"Oh, cheers for that."

"You know what I mean."

"Mm," she hummed flatly.

"Besides, even if I was shagging someone, it wouldn't be in my flat. Too likely to be interrupted. We'd go back to yo—theirs." He cleared his throat.

Molly caught his slip and wasn't sure if he meant her, or—equally likely, considering his sense of boundaries—someone else ending up in her flat.

"If you ever shag anyone in my bed, I'll light every pair of overpriced socks you own on fire," she said, going with the second option because the implications of the first were a bit too big to process. Sober, at least.

"Pret-ty sure that's not going to be a concern. Now, at least," he muttered. "So, chips?"

 


	28. “That wasn’t very subtle.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by rainmyselfinharmony: Are you still taking prompts? If you do, #53, “That wasn’t very subtle.” from the Drabble Challenge please! 
> 
> This one is actually a follow-up to Chapter 20, "Hold my hand so he gets jealous." 
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.)

"Yes, and, French milled soap is a better value and more ecologically sound than shower gel. Shower gel is an insidious way of getting people to spend more while receiving less."

"But it smells nicer."

"You wear perfume anyway."

"I like shower gel, I'm buying shower gel," Molly said, putting the bottle in the trolley.

"And I'm sure the polar bears will thank you for doing your part to ensure they all drown when there's no more sea ice for them to live on. Oh, wait. They won't."

"Oh, so we're doing carbon footprint now, Mr. I-take-cabs-everywhere-because-I-can't-be-arsed-to-wait-for-anything-ever-including-public-transport?"

"You know that in my work, lives often depend on my expediency. I buy recycled loo roll—which is terrible, by the way—and I don't drink bottled water. It's an offset."

"Mrs. Hudson buys your loo roll and—Oh fuck, are you kidding me?"

"Wha—Again? Did he have you chipped while you were sleeping?"

"We live in the same neighbourhood, it's bound to happen," Molly hissed, pushing back against Sherlock's shoulder when he nudged her aside to walk next to her, resting that giant paw of his on the handle of the trolley.

"This is why I don't do my own grocery shopping."

"So you don't run into my ex-fiancé in the Health & Beauty aisle."

"Close enough. Now smile. And fawn."

"Still not fawning."

"If you don't want to sell it," he said in a _no skin off my nose_ tone.

And then there was Tom, all earnest smile and _fancy seeing you two again so soon, ha-ha-ha, just doing my weekly shop_ (ready meals and a plastic tub of hummus, even his junk food was healthy and boring).

"Just picking up a few things ourselves," she said, master of stating the obvious.

Which must have been Sherlock's cue to reach across the trolley and grab three (!) boxes of condoms and a tube of lubricant. "Going away for the weekend," he explained.

Tom's eyebrows raised but he was a mature adult (unlike Sherlock) so said nothing.

"So, did you ah, have a nice lunch with oth—uh, Thom?"

Tom said something about oh, yes, yes, a school chum, just moved back from Adelaide, meeting him tonight at the pub, actually, you two should swing by. She wasn't really paying attention because Sherlock had rested a casually possessive hand on the curve of her hip, crowded into her space to keep the aisle clear enough for another trolley to pass. He was eerily good at acting like a normal person when he wanted to. They parted rather quickly with a handshake and a yes, maybe we'll all grab drinks sometime.

"Three boxes? Really? That wasn’t very subtle." she said after Tom had left the aisle.

"Alright, yes, it might have been a bit over the top, but they're on offer."

"Well, go put them back now."

"Can't, he might see us when we go to the till."

"So then we'll just wait a little bit until he leaves."

"If I wanted a milkshake, I'd have gone to a shop that sells milkshakes," Sherlock said, indicating the ice cream in the trolley. "Just buy them and return them next time you do your shopping."

"I'm not returning them! I don't need some perky-breasted dewy-skinned twenty-something judging my sad middle-aged life choices when I return _three boxes_ of johnnies! _You_ return them."

"Can't, they're on your card and they get sniffy about that sort of thing. Never ends well," he said, gazing off into the distance looking like he was remembering something. She probably didn't want to know.

Molly sighed heavily, giving in.

**One Week Later**

"Okay, yes, fine, we'll get the cheese and onion this ti—are you fucking kidding me."

"Chipped," Sherlock said. "You should get some kind of scan done."

Tom was looking at his receipt with a frown on his face, carrier bags looped over his forearm.

"Just get in the queue and hope he doesn't see us," Molly said quickly through clenched teeth, herding Sherlock toward the Customer Services desk.

 _Of course_ there'd been a mistake on his bill and he needed to straighten it out. The small talk was excruciating, as always, but luckily there was only one other person in front of them.

"And what can I help you with today, sir?" the girl (what was she, like twelve?) behind the desk asked Sherlock when Mr. Wetmop-in-aisle-three stepped aside.

He dialled the charm up to need-a-new-pair-of-knickers, smiling like real people. "We just need to return these," he said, dumping out the three boxes of condoms onto the counter. He'd kept the lube for use in an 'experiment' (she didn't ask).

"Is there, um, something wrong with them, sir? We don't usually accept returns on, ah, personal care items."

Molly could see the annoyance in the line of Sherlock's shoulders. She was hit with a sense of foreboding, like she was watching a mini-her in a disaster film trying to outrun a tsunami.

"As you can see, the boxes are completely intact, seals unbroken. They haven't been tampered with and are in perfectly resalable condition," Sherlock argued through his smile.

The girl looked them over and seemed satisfied with their condition. "I still need a reason for the return, though. Company policy."

"Don't need them any more, decided to start a family."

 _Oh. my. God_ , she thought, watching the wave crash right over mini-her in the film in her head. Tom looked at her, startled. "Eh-heh. We're not trying-trying, but, y'know, if it happens, it happens," she tittered, trying to smile.

"At the rate we're going, can't imagine it taking very long," Sherlock said, giving her that kind of mock-leering smile one of those all-wit-and-charm types would give. She wondered if he'd been practising John-looks.

"Best of luck to the two of you, then," Tom enthused, his grin (mostly) genuine.

*

"You could have just told her we got the wrong kind," Molly hissed as they walked toward the produce section.

"Then they'd exchange them and we'd be stuck with them, because taking them back would just look suspicious."

"Could have just used them," she said without thinking.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her but said nothing else.

She couldn't think of anything to cover with, so she just let the moment pass. Awkwardly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the comments for some commentfics, too, because I'm just out of control.


	29. “D..did you just make that noise?”/ “He’s a bad kisser.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme. (The last one, for now.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by bkst-tutu1b: 20 (“D..did you just make that noise?”) & 21 (“He’s a bad kisser.”) please, if you are still taking drabble prompts? No pressure,I can wait if it's *years* (which i actually did after i read the "road...") Also, i have difficulty deciding which of your story is my fav. The road, of course, but the recent drabble fest is giving me a tough time! Thank you for sharing your work. :)
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.) 
> 
> Huzzah, I've made it to the end of the list in my tumblr askbox.

"He’s a bad kisser."

Molly made a face over her mug.

"Just repeating what she said," Mary said, sipping her own (decaffeinated) tea.

"She really said that, after everything she told the tabloids and whoever else would listen?" The _that slag_ was heavily implied.

"Who said what about what?" Sherlock asked, shuffling down the stairs.

Mary looked startled, probably more by Sherlock's presence than the guilt of being overheard talking about him. She recovered quickly; blunt as always, she asked, "Why are you here? And why do you look like you just rolled out of bed?"

"Because I just rolled out of bed? Your husband's brooding was too loud, couldn't sleep. I need sleep, I'm still recovering from being shot," he said, grabbing a mug and fixing himself a coffee.

Mary made a face that said _yeah, okay, that makes sense_ mixed with a little bit of contrition, then looked between the two of them, not-so-subtly trying to figure out if sleeping together meant _sleeping together_ , or if it was just like Molly having a twelve stone Irish Setter curled up on the bed with her.

"Janine phoned me last night, saying goodbye and good riddance before she left London for good," she said. "She blames me for getting mixed up with you and, by extension, getting knocked out in her boss's office the night you got shot."

"You actually _were_ the one who knocked her out," Sherlock reminded her, wincing when he sipped his still-too-hot coffee. Probably the second smartest man in London and he never learned.

"Yeah, but she doesn't know that," Mary said.

"So what was it she said that bore repeating to Molly? I can only assume it was about me, judging by the guilty look on her face. Molly, never play poker, you can't hide anything."

 _Oh really?_ she said with a look.

His face did a complicated series of expressions that translated to _okay, well, yes, the whole me not actually being dead thing, but other than that you're completely transparent_.

She did have to concede that point, which got her a smug look over the rim of his mug before he burned his mouth again.

"She said you were a bad kisser."

"I am not," he said, affronted.

"It's what she said," Mary said, enjoying herself too much.

"Well obviously she's still bitter. Hardly an objective opinion. Molly," he said, setting down his mug and moving to loom over her.

 _Oh, this isn't going to end well_ , she thought.

"You've shagged your way through half of London. Scale of one to ten." It was all the warning she got before he had her face cupped gently in his hands and his lips were on hers, starting with a soft pressure before quickly progressing to the kind of lip-sucking, breath-stealing kiss that made her glad she was already sitting down, as her legs had turned to jelly.

Realizing this was probably going to be her only chance ever to snog the life out of the man she was still in love with despite really not wanting to be, she seized her opportunity and kissed back, burying one hand in his hair and resting the other on the side of his neck. She swiped her thumb along the stubble on his jaw and he made the most delicious, helpless little sound she'd ever heard.

"Did you just make that noise?" Mary asked, breaking whatever spell they'd fallen under.

Sherlock pulled back quickly (though gently), his eyes heavy-lidded for a split second before flying wide. He cleared his throat and turned away, darting over to the other side of the kitchen to make himself look busy.

"Just my phone," he lied, slamming open the cutlery drawer and grabbing a spoon.

"Uh huh," Mary said, eyes twinkling. God she was evil. "So? Scale of one to ten?"

Molly couldn't let Mary have all the fun. "Like a six, maybe," she said, proud of how completely unaffected she sounded.

"A six?" Sherlock said indignantly, dressing gown swirling as he whirled to face them. "Maybe on a logarithmic scale. That had to be at least an eight. Closer to a nine."

"I think you could use a little practice," she said, scrunching her nose and curling her lips in a kind of passive-aggressive patronizing way.

"Pfft, you evidently don't know what constitutes a proper snog," he said, taking the half-full jar of Nutella with him to the sofa to sulk.

"I've got a sample size of half of London, so I mean..."

"Yes, and it's clearly the terrible half."

"Sixtieth percentile isn't that bad," she said, enjoying twisting the knife just the littlest bit. He'd kept her up half the night with his snoring and cold feet, anyway; she was entitled to a little fun at his expense. Mary was really a bad influence, she thought.

Said bad influence was trying to keep a straight face and failing miserably, smiling around the lip of her mug until she dribbled on herself.

Sherlock made an annoyed little grunt and stuffed a spoonful of Nutella in his mouth.

*

"So you think I need practice," Sherlock said, looming over the back of the sofa.

Mary had left an hour before to go and get her shopping done; she'd only stopped by for a cuppa and a bit of a chinwag, anyway.

"Even Olympic Athletes need to practice," Molly deflected, pretending to be absorbed in her magazine. Without Mary around, it was all a bit less of a laugh. She'd really been trying to not think about the implications of what had started as just some silly little piss-taking.

"Ha! So it _was_ a nine," he crowed.

Actually more like an eleven. "Seven, maybe, if I'm rounding up."

"I want a do-over."

"Wh— a do-over," she said, trying to be sure she was hearing him correctly.

"Yes. That was a warm-up. I was still half-asleep. Do-over."

_Yeah, definitely not going to end well._

"Fine," she said, acting like she was giving in while she set her magazine aside.

 

****Okay, yeah, I couldn't just leave it.  I give in to peer pressure.****

*

"Fine, okay, that was a solid seven," Molly panted while Sherlock continued to kiss down her throat. And, well, that wasn't the only thing that was a solid seven, if the occasional brush against her thigh was anything to go by. She wasn't even sure when she'd ended up on her back.

He pulled away, looking utterly affronted (and utterly ridiculous, with his finger-mussed hair and pink cheeks and kiss-swollen lips). "A seven."

"Too much tongue, not enough teeth. Told you you needed practice." It was a lie, a terrible, terrible lie and she was not sorry. If the first one was an eleven, this one was like a fourteen.

"Noted," he said before dipping his head and kissing her once again.

*

"Definitely an eight," she said the next time they surfaced for air. She hoped the button from her blouse turned up; it was an odd colour, hard to replace.

Sherlock made a noise off frustration and dropped his head to rest on her collarbone. "Only an eight, how is that even possible?" he muttered.

"I deducted because I'm pretty sure you left a mark and I hate buttoning up my shirt collar."

"You need more iron," he defended before closing his mouth over a section of skin on her chest. "I'm counting it as a nine."

"Well, I mean, you can count it however you want, but I'm calling it an eight."

He huffed a breath. "Fine," he said, propping himself back on his elbows to bring them face-to-face again.

*

"Yeah, okay, ten. Ten, you win. Jesus," Molly said once she could finally form coherent words.

Sherlock sat up, pressing on the side of his jaw with the heel of his hand and working it side-to-side. "I told you I wasn't a bad kisser. I can't feel my tongue."

"I can't feel my _legs_ ," Molly said.

"It was never specified that 'kissing' applied strictly to the mouth, and I was hardly likely to get a perfect score any other way at the rate things were going."

"Really wasn't complaining. Now get up here."

 

 


	30. “Who gave you that black eye?”/ “Forget it. You fucking suck.”/ “Quit it or I’ll bite.”/ “If you use up all the hot water again, I swear to god! You’re on the couch for a month!!”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr Drabble Challenge meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by moonstone 1520: Can you do #4 (“Who gave you that black eye?”), 8 (“Forget it. You fucking suck.”), 9 (“Quit it or I’ll bite.”), & 10 ( “If you use up all the hot water again, I swear to god! You’re on the couch for a month!!”) (if they haven't already been done?). I love your writing so much. And I'm working on another chapter to Illicit, FYI. ;)
> 
> Remember how I said in a comment re: using three prompts in one ficlet, "I don't think I could do it again if I tried. (Someone will probably send me like five now and I'll have one of those 'hold my beer' moments...)?" It ain't five, but... Hold my beer.
> 
> (Unbeta'd/ britpicked.)

*

“Who gave you that black eye?” Mary asked in lieu of a normal greeting.

"I walked into a door," Sherlock said shortly, giving her one of his plastic sarcastic-arsehole smiles. He brushed past her into the flat to leave one somewhat guilty-looking Molly.

"Really was an accident," Molly said sheepishly as she gave Mary a quick hug.

"This is a story I know I want to hear."

"Newp," Sherlock called over his shoulder, already hefting the baby out of her seat.

There was something going on there, she was sure of it.

"Well now I really want to hear it," Mary pouted.

"Tell you later," Molly said quietly, barely moving her mouth.

"No you won't," Sherlock called.

 _If looks could kill_ , Mary thought, watching Molly out of the corner of her eye. She wondered if she'd end her first date night since giving birth by depositing bin bags full of consulting detective in random skips all over the city. Or, well, at least being the one doing the driving.

*

"Just- do a quick check-in," John said after the fourth time she sneaked a peek at her phone. She knew he was just as anxious as she was, though for different reasons. Sherlock could handle Rosie and would have been fine even without Molly's supervision, despite what her husband thought.

She excused herself to the Ladies' and dialled Molly's phone; straight to voicemail. Sherlock's was the same. She began to actually worry a bit when the landline rang and rang until finally Molly picked up with a breathless hello.

They couldn't have been...? Could they? Maybe; Sherlock was clearly nursing a massive crush on her (if not more), but it would take nothing short of a gun to his head to ever get him to act on it. God only knew why, Molly'd been single for months and was probably gagging for it, it wasn't like she'd turn him down.

"Hi! Just wanted to check in, see how things were going," Mary said, listening intently to the background noise. She could hear rustling, but wasn't sure what it was.

"Good! Everything is good!" Molly said too quickly.

"Why are you out of breath?" Mary asked. Tact was for... well, anybody but her.

"Had to run from upstairs, even though someone was lying on the sofa _right next to the phone_ ," Molly hissed.

"Clearly occupied," Sherlock said breezily.

"Just couldn't tear yourself away from that staring contest with a three month old, could you?"

"I'm _holding her gaze_. It's important for emotional and intellectual development. Also, considering the duration of the eye contact, I think we can rule out a future diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder."

Things were, apparently, fine.

"So we'll be finishing up dinner soon," Mary said. "Then it's on to the theatre. I'll check in before we go in and again at intermission."

"Just go and have a good time," Molly dismissed.

*

"Forget it. You fucking suck," Mary heard as Molly picked up the landline for her second check-in. "Hey! How was dinner? How's the crowd?" she asked, shifting from murderous to bright.

Mary thought it best she didn't know what was going on now. She asked anyway. "What's going on?"

"Someone was putting an app on my phone, _without permission_ , and now it's bricked," Molly replied curtly.

"It's not bricked, Craig can fix it, or if not, he'll know a guy. This is why I stopped using Android."

"Well, I like Android. Apple can suck a bag of d—" Molly was interrupted by Rosie's wail over the baby monitor.

"I'll get her," Sherlock said quickly, the phone clattering on the (probably) coffee table before he sprinted away.

He was in for a treat; Rosie's post-dinner nappy was always impressive. Mary thought she saved up all day just for that. _That's my girl_ , Mary smiled to herself.

*

Never one for musicals, Mary was almost hoping her third check-in would turn up some dire non-emergency and they'd have to rush home. She stood in the queue for the bogs and phoned while John did... whatever. Hopefully he was at the bar getting her a Tom Collins. Or just the whole bottle of gin. She was going to need it for the second act.

"Hello?" Molly answered on the second ring. She sounded annoyed again. There was the sound of something sliding over the plastic mouthpiece. "Quit it or I’ll bite."

"Sounds like you two are having fun," Mary said.

"I've got a size ginormous foot in my face and ugh, stop touching me with your monkey toes! What is wrong with you?"

"If you'd just let me have the inside, this wouldn't be a problem."

"And if I let you have the inside, I'd end up half on the floor because of your stupid big feet."

"Blame Mary, it's her sofa that's too small."

"So I can assume the baby's sleeping in her cot and not roving the flat with a bottle of drain cleaner in one hand and a screwdriver in the other looking for outlets?"

"Out like a light, didn't even fuss. Gran was right, a little drop of whiskey always does the trick," Molly joked.

"Molly!" Sherlock chastised. There was a scuffle and a soft 'oof' and then Sherlock apparently had the phone.

"We didn't actually give the baby alcohol. She went right back to sleep after her second bath—" _oh yeah, good girl_ "—and she hasn't made a peep since," Sherlock said, somewhere between imperious and anxious.

"You're on my hair," Molly grunted.

Oh my.

"It's hair, it doesn't hurt, it doesn't have nerves," Sherlock said.

"My scalp does."

"Going to venture a guess as to how you got that black eye," Mary said, trying not to giggle. Just watching (or, well, listening to) those two when they really got going was so much better than a night at the theatre.

"And you would be wrong. The baby's fine, everything's fine, go back to your date," he bit out before ringing off.

Rude.

*

"I'm so sorry about the mess! I got most of it, but I didn't want to keep Rosie up with hoovering..." Molly began as soon as they came through the door.

Mary took in the pair of them, covered in what was obviously baby powder by the smell; any other time she'd be dying for an explanation of whatever hijinks had led to that state of affairs, but she was still rather buzzed and John had been a bit handsy in the cab, so the sooner they left, the better.

"You can tell me all about it tomorrow," she said, holding out Molly's coat and giving her a meaningful look before tipping her head to John.

Recognition dawned and Molly grabbed Sherlock's arm to steer him out the door, literally pulling him from the conversation he'd just started with John about who-cares-what.

Sherlock was indignant as he started to shake her off, but then Molly hissed something at him (Mary definitely made out the word 'sex') and he settled.

"Thank you again for watching Rosie, you two get home safe," Mary called, waving, as they started down the path to the street.

"Can't wait for a shower," Sherlock said, ruffling his hair and brushing the baby powder off his shoulders.

“If you use up all the hot water again, I swear to God! You’re on the sofa for a month!”

"We could always share," Sherlock said casually.

"Because you want another black eye to match the first?"

 _Wow_ , Mary thought. She really, really needed to hear that story, because two very different most-likely scenarios presented themselves. Later, though; John was giving her _that_ look.

 

 


	31. "I bet you feel like an artist."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr drabble challenge ask meme (a different one this time).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by mizjoely: For Sherlolly, of course: I bet you feel like an artist. P.S. That was No. 10 on the list.
> 
> This is one big callback to chapter 21: "I can't stand seeing you like this."
> 
> This is the new list: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/143272225898/drabble-challenge-1-150
> 
> (Unbeta'd and unbritpicked.)

"Your cousin Sybil phoned me, she wants me to be her bridesmaid. Wedding's in two weeks, clear your schedule," Molly said as Sherlock walked into her lab.

"Wh—" Sherlock cut himself off, thought about something for a moment, then shook his head. "And you only accepted because she's going to have a chocolate fountain."

"No. I accepted because I've never been a bridesmaid before."

"You."

"Yes."

" _You_?"

"Yeeeeesss..."

"Never a bridesmaid?"

"That _is_ what I said. Why, is that hard to believe?"

"No! No," he said too quickly, looking away and making that face that made him look like the blue eagle from The Muppets. "Why did my cousin, who's met you all of once, ask you to be a bridesmaid? I didn't even know she was getting married."

"Skiing accident and I'm the only person she knows who can fit in the dress. Isn't that great?"

*

"They put me at the kids' table," Sherlock complained, appearing behind her when the bride and groom's first dance began. "And I had to ride with Mycroft from the church. I'm never being your fake date again."

"I didn't know the bridesmaid I was replacing was _eleven_. What kind of an eleven year old brings a plus one? At least it's open bar."

"This is not going to end well," Sherlock said, sounding delighted.

*

She caught sight of Sherlock prowling the grass off to the side of the reception area, hunched over like he was looking for something. She wondered if he lost something, or maybe he'd found a mystery to solve. She couldn't go over and ask because his cousin Bill (there were also cousins Will, Willy, Billy, and Billie; she finally understood why he went by Sherlock) was stomping her around the dance floor like he'd only ever practiced with a mop. If he'd practiced at all.

And then, because the evening couldn't get any weirder, Mycroft cut in.

He gave her one of those lizard smiles that made her skin feel like it wanted to peel off her bones and run away like in a cartoon. "I've secured the last piece of raspberry cheesecake. If you keep my brother from causing a scene, it's yours."

"With ganache or the one with white chocolate curls on top?"

"I hardly think that should matter," Mycroft said.

"No ganache, no dice."

He rolled his eyes. "Just ladle some chocolate from the fountain over it," he said, exasperated.

"Not the same."

He conceded the point.

"What's he doing, anyway? Did he find a case?" she asked, craning her neck to see over his shoulder. _Stupid tall Holmeses_ , she thought. Even in heels she had a hard time seeing past any of them. She was like the only hobbit at an ent wedding.

"I believe he's trying to get himself forcibly ejected from the grounds. He hasn't managed it yet, but he lives in hope."

*

"Where've you been?" she asked around a mouthful of baklava.

"You have crumbs all over your dress."

Someone bumped her and she lost her hold on the square of baklava in her hand.

"And now there's honey, too," she said, looking mournfully at the wasted deliciousness. At least the ants would eat well. "So you were saying?"

He pulled a slim metal flask from inside his jacket pocket and shook it. "Having a bit of fun."

"It's open bar," she said, confused. Who brought their own booze to an open bar wedding?

He unscrewed the cap and passed it under her nose.

That wasn't booze.

"Lighter fluid." Oh God.

"Better. My own special blend. It's a wedding present. Which," he looked at his watch, "Should start any time now." He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the lawn, detouring to snatch her handbag from her chair at the head table along the way.

"Should I be taking my shoes off to run?"

"Might be a good idea. Ooh, there goes cousin Billie off to sneak a fag behind the hedge, right on time."

Moments later a trail of fire snaked out across the lawn; it resolved itself into a heart shape with the bride and groom's initials inside. MH, Millicent Holmes, and SK, Samuel Kalliopoulos.

"Huh. That's actually kind of nice. I bet you feel like an artist. Though, the ah, K isn't very clear. Looks a bit like an H."

"Everyone's a critic," he said testily. His hand tightened in hers. "We should maybe run now."

 


	32. "Why’s there a pregnancy test in the trash?"/ "I warned you. He warned you. Your freaking mom warned you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr drabble challenge ask meme (a different one this time).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by violetjersey: 54 ("Why’s there a pregnancy test in the trash?") & 62 ("I warned you. He warned you. Your freaking mom warned you.") combo pls... but if you're also up for it, a 57 & 94 combo as well ❤❤❤ 
> 
> This is the new list: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/143272225898/drabble-challenge-1-150
> 
> (Unbeta'd and unbritpicked.)

"...Why’s there a pregnancy test in the bin?" Molly asked, looking down into said bin at a box that looked like a bear had ripped it open. There were even teethmarks.

"Experiment."

"You don't say," she said flatly. "That's not apple juice, is it?" In her favourite glass, of course, the authentic midcentury one with the pixie-on-a-toadstool motif.

"Some of it is."

"I don't know if that's better or worse."

"Eh." Sherlock squinted and bobbed his head side-to-side, then went back to whatever he was doing on his laptop. "Oh, I need a control, " he said, producing another pregnancy test in a sealed packet from literally up his sleeve and holding it out to her. It was like he lived for drama.

"You were one of those kids that got a magic kit for their eighth birthday and—"

"Sixth, I was precocious."

"I'm sure that's the word for it," she muttered on her way to the loo. Best to just get it over with.

*

"Huh." She stared down at the two blue lines on the test. "So I'm assuming it's for a case and has something to do with false positives, or...?"

"No," Sherlock said slowly, having gone pale. "Disproving a client's supposed method of faking them, actually."

"Oh. Well, I mean... I don't... Uh... Oh shit." She looked over to Sherlock. "You've got more, right?"

He held up a carrier bag.

*

"Okay," she said, lining up the other four tests on the bathroom sink and setting the timer on her phone.

 _I warned you. He warned you. Your freaking mum warned you_ , the annoying Responsible Molly voice lectured inside her head.

"It was one time! This isn't... _telly_ , these things don't happen."

"Who are you talking to?" Sherlock said outside the door.

She pulled the door open. "Were you listening?"

"Not on purpose," he said defensively.

"It's just a fluke, I'm sure it's just a one-in-a-million manufacturing error or some quirk of my body chemistry..."

"And you're sure you're completely asymptomatic? No nausea, heightened sense of smell or taste, breast tenderness, darkening of your ni—"

"Actually a doctor, know the signs," she reminded.

Sherlock wisely shut up.

*

"Head between your knees, there's a lad," Molly said, rubbing Sherlock's back as he sat on the closed toilet lid. "It's just a bad run, they're all the same lot number, I'll go online and look to see if there's been a recall."

"Already checked," Sherlock croaked.

She ran a flannel under the tap and squeezed it out one-handed, thankful for the first time in ever that her bathroom was so small.

"You know whose fault this is," she said, a bit giddy and outside herself.

"Mine," Sherlock said miserably into the cold flannel.

"Tom's. I mean, if we hadn't kept running into him and making up the whole thing... Well, it's _karma_ , but it's still Tom's fault."

"The term 'karma' doesn't actually—"

"You're really going to do that now?"

"Sorry," he said.

He was really shaken, she thought.

"I did warn you. It's hereditary. My parents hadn't had sex for six years—I mean, of course they hadn't, just look at Mycroft, producing something like that would put anyone off of sex—then one night there were too many Piña Coladas and apparently nine months later there I was," he rambled.

"Pretty sure your Mum was being facetious with that story," Molly said, still rubbing Sherlock's back. She'd met his parents and the things his Mum said when he wasn't around... she'd never look at her or Mrs. Hudson the same way again. Never had she been so glad she missed out on the seventies.

"I choose to think she wasn't for my own sanity, thank you," he said, obviously starting to feel better. He inhaled sharply.

"Right," he said, sitting up. "So are we going about this the old-fashioned way and getting married, or just domestic partnership, or a custody agreeme—"

"Whoa there, slow down, Usain Bolt," she said. "First, I'm having a blood test and an actual gynaecological examination—and no, you will not be the one performing it with me talking you through it."

Sherlock's open mouth clamped shut. "Wasn't going to suggest that anyway, I don't even own a speculum. At least, anymore. Thanks to John."

"It was his anyway, you stole it from his office."

"Borrowed."

"Right, so we were talking about the fact that I'm probably pregnant—oh my God," she said, her knees going weak.

"Just hitting you now?" Sherlock asked, his arm darting around her waist to steady her.

"I—oh my God," she repeated, her hand moving of its own accord to cover her belly. _Talk about a delayed reaction_ , the other Molly in her head snorted.

"Do you need to sit down?" he asked, genuinely concerned.

"No, I think... I think I'm good," she said, turning her face to actually look at him. "Wow."

"Yeah," he said. He tentatively reached up and covered the hand on her stomach with his.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That took a turn I wasn't expecting, even with the prompts.
> 
> And why yes, that is a callback to all my Tom-verse chapters and commentfics.
> 
> NOW WITH FANART drawn by unefleurmorte on tumblr: https://unefleurmorte.tumblr.com/post/162162145073/ficlet-cemetery-whys-there-a-pregnancy-test


	33. "I’m glad you’re mine."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr drabble challenge ask meme (a different one this time).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by rooneykmara: 108 (I’m glad you’re mine. ) for the new drabble list?:) Thank you!
> 
> This is the new list: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/143272225898/drabble-challenge-1-150
> 
> (Unbeta'd and unbritpicked.)

"You're sure you've memorized it?"

"Yes."

"Positive?"

" _Yes._ "

"Just hold it a little longer to make sure. Feel it from every angle. Make sure you know every ridge and bump."

"Sherlock, I know what it feels like. I've actually had it in my hand _and_ used it before."

Mary snickered from the front seat.

"What's so fu—oh. A penis joke, hilarious," Sherlock said flatly. He swiped his key ring from Molly's hand and stuffed it back in his trouser pocket. "Don't forget, this all hinges on your ability to pick out _my_ key in a bowl full of other—possibly identical—keys."

"I can't even believe this is a real thing. I mean, it's seems so... antiquated."

"Everything old is new again," Sherlock said, looking out the window. He jiggled his leg; Molly wondered why he was nervous.

"But... a key party. I mean, seems more like something from a film than real life." She wrinkled her nose.

"And had you not been running late, you would have heard more than you ever wanted to know about them from Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said.

"I'll tell you later," Mary supplied from the front seat.

Molly turned back to Sherlock. "Still don't know A, why you needed me for this, and B, why I have to pretend to be married to John. Also, you said six, I was there at six."

" _Because_ , A, even though polyamory is making inroads as an accepted lifestyle, three isn't conducive to the idea of a wife-swap." He enunciated 'wife-swap', popping the 'p'. "And B, I'm not going home with Mary, that's just weird. And it was 6:02."

"Yeah, _that's_ really the weird part," Molly muttered. Because it wasn't weird to pretend to be married to her in the first place? His internal logic boggled, sometimes.

*

"—and of course she _has_ to go to the Montessori Day nursery, I mean, what other schools _are_ there?" Nosejob Bottle-Blonde said, gesturing widely with her wineglass.

 _God, kill me now_ , Molly thought. She was beginning to think Pratt's Bottom was named for the people who inhabited it.

She caught Sherlock's eye for a moment before he turned back to whatever investment banker or trader or crime boss he was talking to. Honestly, he didn't really need her there. John either. Mary could save herself from anything, she didn't need the buddy system to get her out of an uncomfortable situation. Sherlock, on the other hand, was a big baby and didn't know how to handle female attention. He wouldn't last a day as a woman, he'd go join a convent somewhere in the Pyrenees just to get away from the slavering and leering.

At least he was getting a taste of it now. The wives were treating the party like a meat market and in a sea of flabby middle-aged desk jockeys, he was the only cut of prime rib.

The hostess of the party (and the reason they were there; husband was a plastic surgeon accused of fraud) came back into the Great Room (which really wasn't that great, to be honest, everything was grey and pale pink and chrome, there was even a throw pillow covered in silver sequins like a square disco ball) bearing a tray of bottles of cheap nail varnish in wild colours, the kind you'd find at a 99p shop. "Alright, ladies and gents, now what we've all been waiting for. Boys, if you'd step forward and pick your colour?"

Sherlock looked miffed; he hadn't anticipated this. He swiped a bottle and inconspicuously flashed it in her direction to show her the colour. Purple, she thought. Hard to tell across the room, but it stood to reason, since it was his favourite colour. Well, besides black, but black wasn't a colour and she really didn't want to remember _that_ discussion (lecture).

"Now, if you gents would take out your keys and remove them from the fobs?"

Oh bollocks. That was why Sherlock looked miffed. And, well, duh, of course they'd only want the keys, not whatever was attached to them, that would make it too easy to cheat. And possibly end up setting off multiple car alarms up and down the street if somebody shoved their hand in the bowl and stirred it around, sending keys jamming into panic buttons. This was not a contingency they'd planned for.

She looked over to Mary nervously while the men used the nail varnish to paint the tops of their keys and each took a turn holding it under a hair dryer. Mary looked unconcerned, but she always was. Then again, Mary just had to find her own house key, which, yeah, wow, why hadn't anyone thought of that? Molly should have given hers to Sherlock to put on his ring in the car. Why hadn't _he_ thought of that? She turned her head and scowled in his direction.

Sherlock, who'd been looking at her again, scowled back a _why are you scowling at me?_ on reflex. Then he did this thing with his hands that she thought might be a signal. A... triangle... maybe?

"Oh!" she said out loud, figuring out that he was going to use the nail varnish to draw that on the key so she could find it more easily.

Everyone looked at her. Sherlock looked at the ceiling; _why me?/ God give me strength_. Git.

"Just, ah, remembered something I was trying to think of earlier, eh heh," she tittered to anyone listening. "Uma Thurman, Poison Ivy in that, ah... Batman... movie..."

"Actually, she was Batgirl. Alicia Silverstone was Poison Ivy," one of the bellends from the peanut gallery of husbands corrected imperiously.

"Nope, Uma Thurman," Sherlock said, fingers flying over his phone. She knew he didn't know that, he didn't even know the difference between Batman and The Hulk. It was nice that he trusted her to know things that weren't just about cadavers. He flipped his phone around in front of Bellend Windbag's face.

"Oh. Well, Schumacher's films weren't worth watching anyway," Bellend Windbag sniffed.

Sherlock gave him a tight smile and mouthed, "Knob," when Bellend Windbag turned away.

Molly stifled a laugh.

*

"So, who's first?" the hostess said, holding the bowl in front of her and shaking it around. She was having entirely too much fun. That fifth glass of pink champagne she'd pounded with her back turned to the rest of the party probably helped a bit with that.

Molly saw one of the other wives, one of those super-competitive tiger-mum types by the look of her, start to step forward.

"Me!" Molly said, throwing her hand in the air and elbowing through the other women like it was a Boxing Day sale. She plunged her hand into the bowl (well, not so much 'plunged' as just 'put'; there were only a dozen or so keys in there) and quickly felt around—

Yes, that one, three raised dots in a triangle pattern. She withdrew the key and held it up only to realize it wasn't purple, but green.

Oh bollocks.

And then, because it couldn't get any worse until it did, Bellend Windbag stepped forward and waggled his bottle of green nail varnish at her.

"Oh, hehheh, a man who knows his films. I'm glad you're mine," she said, plastering on a smile like she had Vaseline on her teeth.

*

"You really didn't need to tell everyone about that bloke's child maintenance payments to his ex-wife," John chastised from the front seat.

"Had someone not picked the wrong key, I wouldn't've had to," Sherlock said testily, wincing as he pulled his handkerchief away from the cut on his cheek so Molly could poke at it.

"I thought this," she mimed the signal he'd sent her, "was a triangle!"

" _This_ ," he made a triangle with his thumbs flat and forefingers together in a point, "is a triangle. _This_ ," he did the thing again, thumbs making a point and the flats of his fingers curled together so the second knuckles touched, "is a heart."

"Oh, a heart, isn't that sweet," Mary cooed, glancing into the rear-view mirror.

"It was thematically appropriate," Sherlock defended, looking away and then wincing again when Molly's fingers pressed into his cheekbone.

"Thematically appropriate to a _wife-swap party_ ," she said flatly, then muttered, "And people think you have no concept of romance."

He turned his head to look at her, his eyebrows knit together and something a little bit like a shade of hurt in his eyes. She realized just how close their faces were.

"Maybe, ah, stop at the next open shop you see to get something to use as an icepack," she said to Mary, pulling back and facing the front of the car, deliberately breaking the moment before she did the kind of stupid thing she couldn't take back. If she was ever going to kiss him, she didn't want witnesses.

 


	34. "Did you ever clean the attic?"/ "When’s the last time YOU cleaned the bathroom?"/ "I think you forgot who wears the pants in this relationship"/ "It’s just rain, you aren’t gonna melt!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr drabble challenge ask meme (a different one this time).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by bkst-tutu1b: Have we won the lottery this year or what? Sunken taking another set of prompts?? How can I cheer your writing? Anyway, my picks are k (Did you ever clean the attic?), u (When’s the last time YOU cleaned the bathroom?), m (Get out of the way before I murder you.), n (I think you forgot who wears the pants in this relationship) and t (It’s just rain, you aren’t gonna melt!)! Pretty please with cherry patterned cardigan wearing Molly on top. :D (Didn't meant to b e NSFWish there...) 
> 
> I tried for all five, but fell short. This one isn't quite as comedic as the others. I'm having an off day.
> 
> (Unbeta'd and unbritpicked.)

"Do you hear that?" Sherlock asked, looking up from his microscope.

"Hmm? Hear what?" Molly dipped her thumb in corn flour, then pressed it to a slide. He'd muttered something about a bakery and smuggling, she hadn't really been listening. She was still a bit dejected that she'd had to cancel her trip to Kew Gardens. At least she could get in for free whenever she wanted, thanks to Sherlock.

"Dripping."

"It _is_ raining."

"It's inside," he said, pushing away from the kitchen table.

_Here we go_ , she thought, wiping her finger on the towel next to her and getting up to follow him.

*

"Did you _ever_ clean the attic?" Molly asked, trying to get the spiderwebs out of her face without sputtering.

"Why would I? It's not part of my flat."

"And you don't clean that, either."

"I _do_ ," Sherlock said, hefting a file box marked 'Client Invoices 2012' and handing it to her.

"Oh yeah? When's the last time you cleaned the bathroom?" She piled the box on top of the others; for not being part of his flat, he had a lot stored in Mrs. Hudson's attic.

"Three days ago. There was ink in the tub."

"...and that explains a lot," she said, remembering the text asking her if she knew how to fry calamari. They'd had a nice dinner, at least.

"Ha! Found it. Bucket," he said, holding out his hand.

She stepped closer to hand him the bucket. "Gueaaaugh!" she flinched and shivered as a drop of cold rain hit the back of her neck and rolled into her shirt.

"What was _that_?"

"Found another lea—yeaugh," she said, twisting out of the way of another drip just in time. "Leak."

"It’s just rain, you aren’t going to melt," he said, amused. The look on his face morphed into consternation as he reached up to rub his hair; he glanced up and was rewarded with a drip to the face.

"I think we have a problem," he said.

*

"Scissors," Molly said, holding the duct tape in place.

"In your back pocket," Sherlock said, completely unhelpfully.

"Yes, I put them there like two minutes ago. Get them please and cut this."

He hesitated for a second before making the bare minimum of contact necessary to retrieve the scissors, then wedged himself next to her under the slope of the roof to cut the tape.

"Now, the moment of truth," Molly said, pinching the loose plastic sheeting and cutting a small hole in it. The collected water poured into the bucket below it and she whooped in triumph. "And you thought it wouldn't work. I think you forgot who wears the trousers in this relationship," she said, hooking her thumbs in her pockets and puffing out her chest in a manly stance, rocking on her heels for emphasis.

"I think I like you better without trousers," he sniffed. A second later his eyes flew wide, realizing what he'd said.

"Well, I mean, I've got nothing on for the rest of the day..."

Sherlock squinted at her. "Is this where you expect me to say, 'I think I'd like you better with nothing on for the rest of the day?'"

"You're finally getting the hang of this," she said.

"Hn," he grunted, pausing for a beat before turning to leave the attic.

_So close_ , she thought. _One of these days..._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Why yes, I continue to be a self-referential asshole and I _did_ put in a reference to one of my old fics.)


	35. "I have fans. More fans than you, to be exact."/ "I have reasons. You wouldn't get it."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr drabble challenge ask meme (a different one this time).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anitaww-blog: For the new drabble challenge: #82. I have fans. More fans than you, to be exact. and/or #132. I have reasons. You wouldn't get it. Thank you so much!
> 
> This is the new list: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/143272225898/drabble-challenge-1-150  
> Finished: 10, 54, 62, 108, k(11), u(21), n(14), t(20), 82,  
> To Do: 132, 37, 95, 85, 100, 25, 42, 8, 47, 111, 41, 81, 145  
> (Unbeta'd and unbritpicked.)

"Huh," Molly said, looking at the letter in front of her.

"Hmm?" Sherlock was sprawled in the chair in the corner of her postage-stamp office, head tipped back against the wall, hands folded over his stomach, long legs reaching almost to the door. He was napping while waiting for... something, whatever, to finish, which he would deny with his dying breath.

"Got a letter. BBC Four wants to do a day-in-the-life-of documentary about me."

"What?" he said, face pulled into _that doesn't make sense_. He didn't bother to open his eyes.

"Apparently someone saw my YouTube channel and thought it was interesting. 'A British Doctor G,' it says."

"You don't have a YouTube channel," he said, finally opening his eyes and sitting up.

"Yeah, I do," she said, leaning forward to open her browser. "I have fans. More fans than you, to be exact. Just hit forty-k subscribers last week. I did a giveaway. I mean, it was only a t-shirt and a keychain from my Redbubble, but people liked it."

"'More' isn't an exact unit of measure," Sherlock said as he wheeled his chair over, bumping into hers and jostling her shoulder as he crowded her space to look at the computer. "'Molly in the Morgue?' _That's_ your channel name? And why the cherries? Shouldn't it at least be a skull or a body bag or something?"

She opened her lab coat to reveal her cardigan (well, one of them; she'd taken a page from Sherlock's book and owned multiples because accidents _did_ happen and they weren't being made any longer).

"Oh," he dismissed, reaching across her to push her hand off the mouse before clicking on the videos. She was explaining lividity in simple terms, complete with animations. Wait, no, that was the one—

"Molly, I need a section small intestine from a twenty-something female and a piece of cirrhotic liver, if you have it," Sherlock bellowed from off-screen. "I'll be in the lab."

Molly-on-screen pressed her lips together and looked into the camera for a beat, eyebrows raised, then went back to her explanation.

Sherlock looked at her askance, then went back to the video and started scrolling down.

"No no no, you don't need to see the comments!" Molly said, trying to wrestle the mouse away from him, which was like trying to wrestle an actual mouse from a tiger.

"'Are you single?' 'Oh no, not him again,' 'What does the tosspot want now,'" he read incredulously. "I'm not a _tosspot_. Why didn't you edit me out?"

"I have _reasons_ ," she said. "You wouldn't get it," she added, muttering, hoping he stopped scrolling before—

"'You two are so cute together, you should get married!' How many of these am I _in_?"

"Like... half? You're never on camera, well, except for the one time. You reached past me when I was filming in the lab."

He flipped through files in his Mind Palace (or whatever he did when he was trying to remember something) before recognition dawned. "You said you were practising for a thing—" he wiggled his fingers, "—for students."

"I lied," she said simply.

He turned to face her, appalled. Then, "Do they know it's _me_?"

"Nope. They just call you Pita."

"Why do they think my name is Peter?"

"Pee-eye-tee-aye. Pain in the arse."

He scowled and made a grab for the keyboard, but Molly had been anticipating that move; she snatched it first.

"You're not ruining this for me! They don't know you're _you_. Your secret is safe, Bruce Wayne."

"Wh—"

"Batman," she said flatly.

He narrowed his eyes at her, unsure if it was an insult. "If I'm in your videos, I want royalties."

"One, I don't actually make that much, and two, you use all my hot water, and eat my food, and use my lab. So we're even."

Sherlock made a face, conceding.

"I at least want a t-shirt, then."

"Why do _you_ want a t-shirt?"

"For my Mum. She has a memorabilia collection of me. One for Mycroft, too. Every time there's a coup or a border skirmish she buys a paper."

He didn't sound happy about that last part; Molly could only guess whose collection was bigger. "Your, ah, Mum already has one," she said.

"Wh—how?"

"She might be a fan," Molly hedged.

"You've never even met my mother!"

"Actually..."

"When?" he asked, accusatory.

"The first time, or...?"

"How do I not know about this? _Me_?"

"Well, I mean, you were dead, and your brother didn't want to go to the Chelsea Flower Show, and Andrea hates flowers..."

"You even know his assistant's real name? She never tells anyone that! It's like you're not even Molly Hooper! Do you have three kids and a dog I don't know about, too?"

"Yes, I hide them under the bed in the spare room with your harpoon and the suitcase full of single socks you keep under there, which, I mean, I've never asked about because I probably don't want to know, but really...?"

"They were for—"

"—a case, yeah, got that. _Anyway_ , yes, I know your mother, and no, we don't talk about you. Much."

"You pass the Bechdel Test, congratulations," he said sarcastically. "If she watches, why isn't she sticking up for me in the comments?"

Molly cleared her throat and looked away.

"Molly," he warned.

"She might have started the Pita thing. As a joke! Because she knows you!"

"What's her username?"

"I'd rather not say," she said, turning her face away.

"Molly."

"You're the detective, you figure it out."

Sherlock scrolled through the comments. "Oh for—CombustibleMummy?"

"Because of her book. And because your Dad says—"

"Yes, thank you, I know exactly what my father says, I had to endure them pawing at each other my entire childhood. Without the miracle of birth control there'd be enough of us to fill a small arena, I'm sure," he said, disgusted.

"That is a terrifying thought."

"Isn't it?" Sherlock smiled. "Speaking of irresponsible usage of birth control, are there baby shirts? Rosie should have one."

"She does. I traded Mary for a pair of pants with a magnifying glass on the back that says 'Clueing for Looks.' The Os are eyes."

"Never should have let her take over the merchandising," Sherlock muttered.

 

****Yeah, I accidentally again and it was too big for commentfic.****

 

"So we might have a problem," Molly said, pulling up a lab stool next to Sherlock.

"And the Sun goes 'round the Earth, what else is new?"

Molly started to correct him, then shook her head. He'd just forget it anyway. If he was actually being serious. Sometimes she genuinely didn't know.

"My YouTube fans figured out who you are. Well, one. The _improbable_ one."

"I still find it improbable that you have forty thousand—"

"Forty-nine. Doing another giveaway at fifty."

"—That you have forty-nine thousand fans to begin with," he finished, because it was pathological with him.

"No, theimprobableone, from John's blog."

He made a noise of disgust. "Anderson. Of course."

"Wait, _Philip_ Anderson? From the Met and your fan club? That's him?"

"Formerly of the Met and yes, that's him."

"Oh. So for the giveaway at fifty I was going to do a signed poster—yes I have posters now—but, ah, he suggested that I should do a Pita reveal instead, and, ah I may have agreed to it."

"Nope."

"Your Mum likes the idea."

He closed his eyes and stuck out his jaw for a second, then blanked his face again. "No," he said curtly.

"Oh, hey, you remember that time I helped you fake your death and didn't tell anyone for two years?"

"And _this_ is how you're finally using that card?"

"'That card,' like it's singular. Honey, that is a whole deck."

Sherlock clenched his jaw. "Fine," he said.

*

The video started with Molly and Sherlock sitting side-by-side in her lab.

"So, because I reached fifty thousand subscribers, which, hi new subscribers!" Molly waved, then elbowed Sherlock, who reluctantly twitched his hand in something approximating a wave, "today's update is a question-and-answer video!"

Sherlock flared his hands and mouthed 'hurray' while rolling his eyes.

"And, because so many of you asked, I was able to persuade Pita, who is _definitely not_ Sherlock Holmes—" Molly cupped her hand next to her face to shield it from Sherlock's view, giving an exaggerated wink; squiggly animated text that looked like chalk writing flashed above Sherlock, reading 'Actually Sherlock Holmes' with an arrow pointing to his head, "—to read the questions."

Molly smiled into the camera, waiting. "That's you," she said through clenched teeth, elbowing him again.

Sherlock pulled a stack of index cards from inside his jacket pocket. "Question one, 'Is it true dead people can sit up,'" he read in a monotone. He tossed the card behind him; Molly gave him a look to let him know he'd be the one picking that up later.

"While it's theoretically possible and I've heard a few drunken convention anecdotes, I've never actually seen it myself. Corpses do occasionally move from involuntary contractions of muscles and tendons during the process of tissue death. And yes, erections are possible—"

Sherlock shuffled through the cards and tossed another one out.

"—and I've heard pretty much every joke about stiffs ever told. Not that I've, ah, ever made one."

Sherlock looked at her askance, lips turned down and brows drawn together.

"Question two," he said before glancing back at the card. "Do dead people make noise."

"Gasses trapped in the body have to escape somehow and, with most cadavers, there are only two ways they can go. Their exit does, in fact, produce sound." Various groans and moans and grunts played in the background.

"Moving on," Sherlock said, tossing the card aside. It was punctuated with a high, squeaky fart noise. "Do you like cats."

"I love cats! I had one for three months a few years ago, but it, ah, didn't work out. It's okay, though! He found a good home with one of my ex-boyfriends, who, well, ah, _died_ , but his flatmate probably took very good care of him after that."

"You gave the cat to Moriarty?"

"Well I didn't know he was Moriarty at the time. And he was really good with him! Toby really liked him."

"I told you that thing was the spawn of Satan," Sherlock muttered.

"He really doesn't mean that! Sherlock loves cats and all animals, so please don't flood the comments with animal rights stuff!" A picture of Sherlock with a bloodhound that Mary had taken on the sly appeared next to Sherlock's face, the words 'Really a dog person!' above him.

"You just said my name."

"What? No I didn't. I meant that detective-guy, Sherlock Holmes, who's definitely not you. In theory, he probably really likes animals and stops to play with puppies in pet shops, which, I mean, is something someone like you would never do."

The video cut to a mobile-phone video taken inside a noisy pet shop, parakeets squawking in the background. Sherlock had a puppy held up in front of him, talking to it while it licked his face. "He's been here for five minutes," Mary said very quietly. "He was trying to convince John to get Rosie a dog as an early Christmas present. John was just asked to leave because you're not supposed to shout in pet stores." Sherlock rubbed his nose against the puppy's.

The video switched back to the lab view, apparently having skipped ahead a few minutes; Sherlock was just setting his coffee mug down out of the frame.

"How many more of these do we have to do? Why did you become a medical examiner? Because you like solving mysteries and dead things don't bother you." He flipped the card aside.

"How many years of school does it take to become a pathologist? Google is your friend, if you can't see your way through a simple search, than you are likely not cut out for higher education in the first place." He tossed the card.

"Boring, boring, no, punctuation and capitalization are not just a suggestion, no, boring—are you and 'Pi-ta' a thing?" he asked incredulously. He turned to address Molly. "How is that relevant to a Forensic Pathology for Dummies YouTube series?"

"Really hope I don't get sued for that," Molly said under her breath. "And you might want to look at who submitted the question before you say anything else."

"Oh for—Anderson! If we _are_ or _are not_ 'a thing' is none of you business and Molly has higher standards than would allow for a philandering conspiracy theorist whose only gainful employment is running a fansite out of his basement and selling the contents of my bins on eBay." He rolled his eyes and flipped the card aside.

"Don't think he's actually concerned about _my_ standards," she said, raising her eyebrows and looking away.

Sherlock looked at her and they held some kind of silent conversation before recognition dawned on his face. "Oh," he said with a curt nod. "And I think that's enough questions for today."

Sherlock started to get up but Molly grabbed his wrist and held him in place, her smile more of a grimace as he tried to pull free before giving up. He subtly rubbed his wrist while Molly did the outro.

"Come back next week when I explain the ins and outs of organ removal! If you liked this video, please hit the thumbs up and don't forget to subscribe to get channel updates in your email! If there's anything you'd like to have explained about death or the post-mortem procedure, leave a question in the comments below. Bye!" Molly waved; Sherlock looked blankly at the camera until he got another elbow, at which point his face crinkled into an approximation of a Shar-Pei as he pretended to smile.

*

"Oh my God," Molly said, looking at her hit count.

Sherlock bent down and peered over her shoulder. "Hn," he said. "People really will watch anything."

She turned her face to scowl at him head-on and he turned to give her a 'what?' look in return; they both seemed to realize at the same time how close they actually were.

"We could, um, do another one, sometime, if you want," Sherlock said, his voice quieter than usual and his tone almost... bashful? Kind of stilted and unsure.

"Yeah, okay," Molly agreed softly.

They stared at each other for another long moment.

"Really expecting a phone to ring or someone to come through the door right about now," Sherlock said, his eyes shifting to the phone on her desk.

Molly laughed and the moment was finally broken.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW WITH FANART from unefleurmorte on tumblr: https://unefleurmorte.tumblr.com/post/162163406793/ficlet-cemetery-chapter-35-i-have-fans-more


	36. "I had a dream about you"/ "I never liked it, I lied"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr drabble challenge ask meme (a different one this time).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by an anon: For the drabble meme: 37(I had a dream about you) and 95(I never liked it, I lied) please. If you don't mind. Thank you  
> This is the new list: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/143272225898/drabble-challenge-1-150  
> Finished: 10, 54, 62, 108, k(11), u(21), n(14), t(20), 82, 132, 37, 95  
> To Do: 85, 100, 25, 42, 8, 47, 111, 41, 81, 145  
> (Unbeta'd and unbritpicked.)

"A murder mystery weekend."

"Yes."

"And you're...? preventing an actual murder...?"

"No." Sherlock's face screwed up like she'd just suggested he eat a mothball dipped in roofing tar and rolled in spider legs. "Art theft. You watch too much telly."

"And John can't go because he couldn't find his bollocks in the bottom of Mary's handbag?"

"Basically."

 _Good for her_ , Molly thought. Couldn't be easy having a baby chained to her boob twenty-four hours a day. Going to the toilet by herself was probably like a month in the Bahamas.

"And you can't go alone because you need a lackey."

"Can't go stag to a murder mystery weekend, don't want to look suspicious. And you'll be an assistant, not a lackey."

"What could possibly go wrong." she said lightly.

*

"Are you alright?" were Sherlock's first words after coming-to.

"Mm, fine," she said, checking his vitals. He'd gone down like a sack of bricks after he'd got spritzed in the face with some honest-to-God James-Bond-level spy-spray (probably Fentanyl, if she had to guess). He should have stayed behind the folding screen with her. She supposed she should just be glad he hadn't been shot.

"I had a dream about you," he wheezed, blinking and shaking his head before trying to sit up.

"Did you have pigtails and ruby slippers?" she asked, checking his pupils.

"Wh—? No, don't bother, not going to remember it anyway." He pulled off his tie and undid the first two buttons of his shirt.

"Are you having trouble breathing?"

"It'll pass," he said, finally struggling himself upright.

"Who, ah, who was that? I thought we were waiting for one of the actors."

"'Actors' is a generous descriptor," he muttered, fishing his phone out of his jacket pocket. " _That_ was most definitely SVR RF."

"Who?"

"KGB, these days," he said, fingers flying.

"Why does the KGB want a reproduction Fabergé egg?"

"Obviously it's not the egg they want, it's what's inside. Probably Cold-War Era microfilm, judging by the provenance." Then, mostly to himself, "Why do they always hide things in objets d'art? Why not, I don't know, shoes? Or hatbands? They all wore hats back then."

After a beat of silence in which Molly pondered why men's hats had fallen out of fashion she asked, "So did you know about this, or did you just get lucky?"

"Hardly call this entire weekend 'getting lucky,' between the horrible food, miserable guests, _costumes_ , and pouring you into bed only to have your snoring keep me up the entire night," he said, scowling down at his phone. "Tsch. 'Do not engage,' of course. _Mycroft_."

"You haven't eaten anything since Friday morning, you haven't done more than grunt at anyone who's talked to you who wasn't a suspect, you _love_ disguises, and, in my defence, drinks were two-for-one between six and nine."

"Yes, and that doesn't mean you have to drink twice what you normally would."

"They were really strong! Like, 'I've got a three-day weekend and I plan on forgetting two of them' strong. I mean, say what you will about everything else, but they do _not_ skimp on the booze here."

"How do you still have a liver? And the bartender is quitting in a few days, she was making them double-strength as a final salute to hotel management." He perked up and listened. "Screen, now, move!"

*

"How many fingers am I holding up, Dorothy?" She held two fingers in front of him.

"Wh—? No, nevermind. Really don't care." His focus was laser-sharp as always; he was fine. He was going to have one hell of a black eye, though.

Molly rotated her hand to show him with a gesture exactly what she thought of his attitude.

"Should I, ah, phone the ambulance? Or is this still part of the mystery package?" one of the guests asked.

"No, it's fine, I'm actually a doctor and he's—"

"Perfectly alright. Though a bit of ice would be lovely, thanks," Sherlock said quickly, shooting her a look.

"I really am sorry about that," Molly said. "It was a bit your own fault, though."

"How was that my fault?" Sherlock asked, pressing gingerly at his cheek. "I didn't hit myself in the face with an ice bucket."

"At least it was empty!  You should've, I don't know, announced yourself or something! _You_ were supposed to be chasing _him_ , not the other way 'round!"

*

"I will be so glad to get this dress off," Molly said as the squad car took away two cast members. The ambulance followed with the hotel's assistant manager in the back; the bartender had submitted her resignation in a pretty painful sort of way after security had wrestled him to the ground. "Kind of like the gloves, though. I feel like Audrey Hepburn."

Sherlock did that twitchy eye-roll thing he did when he didn't want to actually waste breath on a dismissal. "I get the shower first, I can't wait to get this... product... out of my hair. I could fry chips with all this grease."

"You definitely look better with your normal hair."

"You said you liked my hair like this," he said, sounding genuinely wounded.

"I never liked it, I lied."

He looked at her, mouth open and brows drawn together, affronted.

"Sorry! You were just really into the whole dressing up thing, I didn't want to hurt your feelings."

He scowled at her. "And you don't like the suit, either."

"Plaid's not really your colour."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so yeah, this one could be seen as the backstory for the black eye in chapter 30. And he's wearing Mycroft's borrowed suit from chapter 10. Because hey, I'm running out of new universes here, okay?


	37. "If you die, I’m going to kill you."/ "I’m sorry, but that was adorable."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr drabble challenge ask meme (a different one this time).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by geekmama: How about #85 (If you die, I’m going to kill you.) and #100 (I’m sorry, but that was adorable.)?
> 
> This is the new list: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/143272225898/drabble-challenge-1-150  
> Finished: 10, 54, 62, 108, k(11), u(21), n(14), t(20), 82, 132, 37, 95, 85, 100  
> To Do: 25, 42, 8, 47, 111, 41, 81, 145  
> (Unbeta'd and unbritpicked.)

"—and after subduing the would-be murderer—"

"I’m sorry, but that _was_ adorable," Mary interrupted with a laugh.

"Yes, almost being beheaded is absolutely darling," Sherlock groused.

"No, the way you stood there with that trident—"

"Sasumata."

"Wait, so, when did oranges come into the story?" Greg asked, wondering when he'd missed that part of it and if the ultra-posh just kept bowls of fruit lying around in every room of the house.

"Sa-su-ma-ta, not sat-su-ma," Sherlock enunciated, looking annoyed. Molly handed him a glass and he thanked her absently, everything about him settling once she was in his space.

"It's a thing that looks a bit like a pitchfork," Molly supplied helpfully.

"It's actually nothing like a pitchfork, Mary was closer with trident. It was used in feudal Japan to—"

"I'm sure if he cares he can Google it," John piped up as he came back from Sherlock's bedroom after putting Rosie down to sleep.

"Anyway, even after they took the bloke away in handcuffs, this one was roaming around with the thing like he was on guard duty," Mary said. She handed Greg her phone; it was a picture of Sherlock standing, very seriously, with a thing that did look a bit like a pitchfork, Molly next to him giving him a look that was somewhere between fond exasperation and seriously questioning her life choices.

_Bit like that painting_ , Greg thought. The one with the farmer and the house. _American Gothic_ , something like that. Whatever.

"It isn't every day one gets to handle authentic samurai weaponry, I was making the most of it," Sherlock defended, sipping his drink and then making a face. "Did you make this with paint thinner?"

"If you wanted a Shirley Temple you should have said something," Molly said.

"I didn't realize the alternative was a glass of pure ethanol."

"It's not pure ethanol, I used a splash of bitters," Molly said, hiding her smile behind her glass.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head, but took another sip of his drink anyway.

Greg wondered when the wedding was. Maybe this time he had a shot at groomsman. 'Course, Sherlock would have to pull his head out of his arse first, which would probably require a jemmy and possibly a winch. "So, you, ah, going on cases more often these days?" he asked, fishing.

"Mm, sometimes," Molly nodded. "Needed me to round out the numbers again. I got to be fake-married to Mary this time instead of John."

"So you two—" Greg said, pointing between John and Sherlock. He could only hope there was a picture; there was still a betting pool down the lock-up from years ago and he wouldn't mind coming away with fifty quid.

"Waiter," Sherlock said.

"Bait," John said.

_Bollocks_ , Greg thought.

*

"No, you said, 'If you die, I’m going to kill you.' Which wasn't at all redundant," Sherlock said, his cheeks slightly pink from his single drink. He really was a lightweight.

"Next time you're hanging off a balcony by your fingertips, I'll strive for 'precision in language,'" Molly teased in that impish way of hers.

"Next time I'm hanging off a balcony by my fingertips, you could do something to help instead of shouting at me."

"Should I have tried to catch you?"

"You easily could have, you're freakishly strong," Sherlock said, earning him a scowl.

Mary came back in the room with a still-sleeping Rosie, giving everyone a wave before heading downstairs.

"That's us, then," John said, twirling his keys. "Sherlock, behave."

"Why do you always tell me to behave? She's the one that starts it."

"You're older, act like it," John said on his way down the stairs.

"Right, well, I should be heading off, too," Greg said, setting his empty glass on the desk. "Molly, you want a lift home?"

"Oh, ah, no, I'll get a cab. Going to stick around for a bit and tidy up so Mrs. Hudson doesn't have to," she said, looking at Sherlock's back. It wasn't the normal annoyance because he made everyone else clean up after him; there was something a bit cagey about it.

Huh. Maybe he'd pulled his head out of his arse after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much for this one I just couldn't make work. Like a Sherly Temple. And a quote from The Venture Brothers. And Molly finally getting to wear flats because 'women in comfortable shoes.' Sigh.


	38. "But, I said I love you."/ "Be serious for two minutes, please."/ "Aren’t you supposed to be the adult?"/ "This is where you impress me, right?"/ "The floor is lava."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr drabble challenge ask meme (a different one this time).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two fills in one! And I used all five prompts! Also, could be vaguely Tom-verse.
> 
> whenisayrunrun requested: Hello to my favourite fic writer :) for your prompt challenge: AW (But, I said I love you.) and EM (Be serious for two minutes, please.) please. x 
> 
> sherlocked167 requested: For the drabble ask thing..25 (Aren’t you supposed to be the adult?),42 (This is where you impress me, right?) and 8 (The floor is lava.) please. Any one or two or all three of them. Your choice really. Thank you :) 
> 
> This is the new list: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/143272225898/drabble-challenge-1-150  
> Finished: 10, 54, 62, 108, k(11), u(21), n(14), t(20), 82, 132, 37, 95, 85, 100, AW (49), EM (143), 25, 42, 8,  
> To Do: 47, 111, 41, 81, 145, 114, 52, 111  
> (Unbeta'd and unbritpicked.)

"Will you watch Rosie tonight? Kate had to cancel at the last minute and it's Debbie's engagement party. I love you," Mary said, sticking out her lip and giving the puppy dog eyes. He'd only taken the video call because he'd thought it something important.

"No, busy, have Molly do it," he said without glancing away from the other window as he typed his response to a prospective client.

"But I said I love you. We have to leave before she can get here, it's all the way in Croydon," Mary said.

"Fine. But phone Molly and tell her to come here straight after work. Mrs. Hudson's on a minibreak in Blackpool with Mr. Chatterjee. Again."

Mary beamed at him before ending the call.

*

"Oh, what a cutie! Is she yours?"

"No, just sitting for a friend," he said, turning and pacing back toward the windows, patting Rosie on the back in the vain hope of a burp that was only air this time. "Now, back to why you're here..."

"Oh! Yes, sorry. Well, you see, I think my stepfather is trying to kill me. I found this in my bed," she said, opening the carrier bag she'd brought and producing an empty plastic box. "Bugger. It was still there when I was in the cab..."

*

"Molly! Shut the door and get up on a chair. Quickly!"

"Wha—? Why?" she said, pulling the door closed.

"Because the floor is lava," he said sarcastically. "There's a venomous snake loose in the flat, probably _Agkistrodon piscivorus_ by the client's description. They're semi-aquatic and not prone to climbing, so this should be relatively safe."

She gave him a flat look. "Be serious for two minutes, please. You don't even have a client."

"Because she ran when she figured out the snake was loose in the flat and that it actually was poisonous. Now get. On. The. Chair," he hissed, pressing Rosie's head against his shoulder and covering her ear just in case he was louder than he thought he was being.

Finally, finally, she realized he was being completely serious and clambered up on the chair next to the sofa.

He heard movement behind him, coming from the bookshelf; he thought it best to be on the other side of the flat just in case they could climb. Probably safe to walk across the floor, considering its position, but one could never be too careful. He pushed the side table a bit closer to the desk to make bridging the gap to the desk easier.

"What are you doing?"

"Fairly obvious," he grunted, thinking he really needed to fix that wobble sometime, before levering himself onto the desk.

"Oh my God," Molly said, throwing her hands in the air.

"Always knew you thought highly of me, but that's really a bit much," he said, stepping down onto the second desk chair before preparing for the leap to the coffee table. Rosie seemed to be enjoying herself at least, if all the shrieking baby-laughter in his ear was any indication.

"So this is where you impress me, right? You hand me the baby and then you find the snake and wrestle it like Steve Irwin?"

"Noooo, I called a herpetologist from the London Zoo to come and collect it," he said slowly. "Is it like a cartoon inside your head all the time, or is just when you're with me?"

Molly scowled, then cocked her head as they both heard the front door. "Wow, your friend is really fast. I mean the Zoo isn't that far, but the traffic right now—"

"It's not the herpetologist, though she'll be delighted to find a second reptile in the flat," he said.

"Wh—"

"Don't come in!" Sherlock shouted, covering Rosie's ear again.

Mycroft, idiotic and arrogant as always, mistook that for an invitation to stroll right in as though he were the guest of honour. He surveyed the room, smiling in his stupid condescending way.

"Oh, the lava game. And you let him pull you into it, too. Honestly Ms. Hooper, aren’t you supposed to be the adult?"

"There's actually a snake on the floor, you should, ah, probably get on a chair," Molly said, eyeing the distance between all the raised surfaces in the room. She was going to give up her chair and try to make it to the sofa.

Mycroft rolled his eyes so hard his eyelids fluttered, jaw going slack from the sheer tedium of his very coexistence with mere mortals. Molly hopped onto the coffee table.

"North American swamp adder, also known as a water moccasin or cottonmo—" Sherlock clarified, holding out his hand to help Molly onto the sofa.

"Yes, I have taken biology, I'm familiar," Mycroft said, hauling his bulk onto the chair Molly had vacated.

"Mm, I'm sure. Wouldn't be surprised to find copies of _Snake Lover's Digest_ shoved under your mattress."

"Says the man who has a stack of _Guns & Ammo_ next to his bed."

"They're not next to the bed, they're next to the toil—" he cleared his throat and looked away. "Nevermind." Really, he had nothing to be ashamed of, Molly kept the _Journal of Clinical Pathology_ (and a few others) next to hers.

"Quite. Mother always said you'd get haemorrhoids, but you never did listen."

"You're a haemorrhoid," Sherlock retorted.

"And you're both setting a shining example for Rosie," Molly said, giving Sherlock a Look before turning one on Mycroft.

"She's only five months old," Sherlock dismissed. "Right. Sorry," he said when Molly's look went from 'you're on thin ice, mister,' to 'I'm going to start counting in minute, do you want me to get the spoon?'

*

"You're not going to breathe a word of this to Mary and John," Sherlock said after Dr. Lacerta left the flat. He'd phone Lestrade later to see about an attempted murder charge for the stepfather.

"As much as I would love to see the look on their faces when I tell them their only progeny was put in mortal peril by her Godparents—"

"Hey!" Molly interrupted.

"You _are_ an accessory," Sherlock reminded her, _sotto voce_.

"Pfft, what else is new?" Molly said, throwing one hand in the air and walking back to the kitchen with Rosie. "Mycroft, are you staying for dinner?"

"Seeing as I know the kinds of things my brother keeps in there, no, but I thank you for your kind offer," Mycroft smiled tightly.

"A little medical waste never hurt anyone," Molly cooed at Rosie, leaning into the fridge. "Well, maybe some people, but that's only because they don't follow proper storage and disposal procedures."

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. "At least this one won't be at the centre of an international incident or causing a sex scandal, though one involving the trafficking of human remains isn't exactly a step up. Really, brother mine, your taste in wo—"

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" Sherlock snapped, looking nervously at Molly's back.

"At the moment, no."

"Fine. Why are you here, anyway?"

"Mummy and Daddy will be in town again at the weekend. We have dinner reservations for seven on Friday."

Molly came into the lounge with a plate balanced on one hand, keeping it well away from Rosie. "Are you sure I couldn't interest you in some finger food?" she asked, serving Mycroft like a cocktail waitress.

Sherlock bit his lip; the look on Mycroft's face was priceless. She'd put the fingers from the salad drawer on crackers and garnished each with a half of an olive.

"Do consider a vasectomy. I shudder to think of what the two of you would produce," Mycroft said once he'd regained his composure.

"Actually... Probably going to want to change that dinner reservation from party of four to party of five," Sherlock said, looking meaningfully at Molly. They'd have to get it out of the way sooner or later.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW WITH FANART by unefleurmorte: https://unefleurmorte.tumblr.com/post/162294966158/ficlet-cemetery-chapter-38-but-i-said-i-love


	39. "Would it kill you to help people?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr drabble challenge ask meme (a different one this time).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by an anon: more ficlets! good heavens thank you! Can I ask for #47 (Would it kill you to help people?) then? And thank you again..I live for these ok 
> 
> This is in the same universe as Chapters 21 and 31.
> 
> This is the new list: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/143272225898/drabble-challenge-1-150  
> Finished: 10, 54, 62, 108, k(11), u(21), n(14), t(20), 82, 132, 37, 95, 85, 100, AW (49), EM (143), 25, 42, 8, 47  
> To Do: 111, 41, 81, 145, 114, 52, 111, 135, 26, 37  
> (Unbeta'd and unbritpicked.)

"An anniversary party."

"Yes."

"Why do they keep inviting you to these things?"

"I really don't know."

*

"Oh, isn't this where Sybil's—"

"Millie."

"—reception was?"

"How can you not remember that? It was two months ago."

"I was pre-gaming in the limo on the way from the church."

*

"Oh my God, that's Sachertorte. _Authentic_ Sachertorte," Molly said, watching as the catering staff laid out the desserts on the table.

"Oh, chocolate cake, how novel," Sherlock said dryly into his wineglass, earning him an eyeroll from both Molly and his brother.

"Mm, yes, Aunt Wilhelmina and Uncle Eustace honeymooned in Vienna. All the desserts are from various shops around the city. Pity only one made it through customs on the way into the country," Mycroft said, a hint of a challenge and a threat underlying his words.

"Only one. That would be, ah, what, twelve slices, then?"

"Yes, they are rather generous, aren't they?"

"Good thing our table gets to queue second," Molly smiled, letting Mycroft know she wasn't going to be intimidated by him when the stakes were rare foreign pastry.

"In the interest of fairness, they'll be going in reverse order this time."

 _Bollocks_ , Molly thought. "Oh look, that piece there at the end, I think the server just coughed on it! Why I never!" she said indignantly, making sure her voice carried.

A low murmur rippled through the tables; Mycroft levelled her with appraising look that might have held just a shade of respect. He did a thing with his eyebrows that made her think the gauntlet had just been thrown down.

She gripped Sherlock's thigh under the table and squeezed, hoping that he got the message that he damn well better run interference so she made it to the table before Mycroft. He coughed and sputtered into his glass, dribbling on himself.

"Brother dear, how much have you had?"

Sherlock squinted. "Four?"

"Seems a bit simplistic for one of your schemes," Mycroft remarked.

"Don't disparage the classics, Mycroft," Sherlock said, raising his glass before upending it and finishing it off.

*

"You were supposed to block him so I could get in the queue first," Molly hissed after pulling Sherlock down to her level.

Sherlock turned his face toward hers. "In case you haven't noticed, I might be a little drunk," he said in stage whisper, then smiled so wide his crow's feet took over his entire face.

"Focus! When the queue moves forward, I need you to distract him so I can get that last slice."

He narrowed his eyes and nodded, game face on. "Right," he said seriously. He straightened and wobbled a bit, but managed to not spill his sixth glass of wine.

Lightweight.

The queue shuffled forward; when Mycroft got within striking distance of the Sachertorte, Sherlock said very loudly "Oh look, over there, by the hedge, it's a thing!"

Mycroft predictably turned to look (not at where Sherlock was pointing, but Sherlock himself); Molly took the opportunity to dart her arm past him and got her fingers on the plate. She tried to pull it towards herself to get a solid grasp but she wasn't quick enough.

"You know what they say, Ms Hooper, 'a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips,'" Mycroft said as he gripped the rim of the plate.

Never one to roll over, Molly pressed her fingertips down harder, pinning the plate to the table. "It's alright, I'll just do an extra hour of cardio this week, right as rain. Have you, ah, been working out more? You're looking rather trim these days, wouldn't want to hijack that, would you?"

Mycroft tugged the plate. "Why thank you, I have been. Floating Yoga, completely life-changing."

"Oh! Is that the last piece of Sachertorte? You two don't mind, do you? It's been simply ages!" The plate was yanked from both their grasps by none other than cousin Kath. "Mm, delish," she said after drawing her finger through the whipped cream on the side and sucking it into her mouth.

 _That bitch_ , Molly thought, watching her swan away. She glanced back to Mycroft; the look on his face was one that promised a lifetime of regret. Molly smirked before she was unceremoniously yanked away from the table.

"Wh—"

"Plan B, this is taking too long."

*

"So this is Plan B, locking us in the toilet until the end of the night," Molly said, giving herself a once-over in the mirror while fishing her lipstick out of her bag. Might as well refresh it a bit.

"Pfft, no, don't be so boring. We're going to shag very vocally in the toilet, which there will be a queue for any moment."

"Oh, that makes se—what?" She paused, mid-application, almost dropping the lipstick in surprise.

"Right, so giggle, that's how these things start out."

"You wha—oh!" she yelped as he pinched her side.

"Now giggle," he said, his voice dropping to a low (but still loud enough to be heard indistinctly past the door) murmur.

"Ah-haha-hahaha," Molly tried.

"Honestly?" Sherlock said, backing her against the door hard enough to rattle in the frame. It was a loose door. "I know you're ticklish."

"You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" he loomed over her, forearm thunking against the wood of the door.

"You're ticklish too," she said, fingertips coming to rest lightly against his stomach. "I believe we have a Mexican stand-off."

"You need at least three for a Mexican stand-off. This is just a stand-off," Sherlock corrected seriously.

Molly did laugh then.

Sherlock joined her, his voice going straight through her like a hot knife through butter. "Going to need you to mess up my hair," he purred, shifting his weight against the door to make it rattle again.

"This is mad," Molly said, burying her fingers in his hair. "Even for you, this is absolutely... mad."

"Mm," he hummed.

"You, ah, want a little lipstick on your collar?"

"This is a new shirt. Jaw or neck works, though," he said, tilting his head. "You could moan a bit."

Molly moaned.

"That was surprisingly convincing. Much better than the laugh," Sherlock said leaning down a bit so she could make a kiss-mark on the corner of his jaw.

"I've had practice," she said flatly.

Sherlock rattled the door again. "This isn't working, doesn't sound right. Hold on," he said.

It was all the warning she got before he hauled her up by the thighs and pinned her against the door.

"Are you serious?" she squawked.

"Authenticity. Now your dress is going to get wrinkled in the right way, too. Details are important. Now lipstick me."

 _In for a penny_ , she thought, rubbing her lips over Sherlock's neck while he started moving them in a slow rhythm against the door. She moaned again, then decided she might as well have a bit of fun, too and started giving directions.

"How, ah—oh yes, yes!—how big of a finish are we going for here?" she asked after a bit.

"Whatever you deem appropriate," Sherlock huffed. He _was_ doing most of the work, so it stood to reason he'd be getting winded.

"Probably don't want to be too over the top," she said, clutching his shoulders tighter with one arm and smacking her palm flat against the door before she did a pretty convincing job of faking an orgasm, if she did say so herself.

Sherlock stopped moving and just sort of leaned there against her.

"You can, ah, put me down any time now," she said quietly.

"Just, ah—" he cleared his throat "—give me a minute."

"Wh— Are you—?"

"Involuntary reaction precipitated by the—ahem—motion," he said.

"Oh," she said. Then, "I could, ah, help you with that. I mean, you wanted authenticity..."

Sherlock pulled back and looked at her, eyes narrowed.

*

She made a point not to make eye contact with anyone in the queue for the toilet as she exited, Sherlock right behind her. His shirt was buttoned up wrong and one of the tails was still untucked from his trousers, his tie hanging out of her handbag. She wondered if he'd done the shirt thing on purpose, then remembered she'd been the one to button it.

"Hurry up," he said, brushing past her. "I have another idea."

She wobbled along after him as fast as she could.

*

"Would it kill you to help people?" she asked Mycroft as they watched Sherlock floundering his way out of the pond.

"Define people."

"Your brother," she said flatly.

"Yes, I believe it will one day," he said airily, leaning on his umbrella. "What was he doing this time?"

"Trying to catch a koi to put in the punch bowl, I think."

"Mm. Good thing the candiru isn't native to the British Isles, though I'm sure he'll be finding leeches in all manner of places later."

Molly sucked in a breath through her teeth, thinking of _Stand By Me_.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Quite," he said.

*

"Oh hey, your wedding present is still in the grass," Molly said as Sherlock dragged her across the lawn to the waiting cab, security hot on their heels.

"I told you it was my own special blend. They'll have to re-sod the whole lawn."

"Hn. Shame, though, that 'k' really does look like an 'h.'"

"Mm, yes, pity," Sherlock said, hiding a smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I should just point out that the Holmes family always does buffets at these things because they're so posh that it's like a charmingly eccentric thing for them to do. Bohemian.


	40. "Delete it.  Now."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr drabble challenge ask meme (a different one this time).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by appletiniandscotch: Drabble meme #111: Delete it. Now. 
> 
> Follows chapters 21, 31, and 39.
> 
> This is the new list: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/143272225898/drabble-challenge-1-150
> 
> Finished: 10, 54, 62, 108, k(11), u(21), n(14), t(20), 82, 132, 37, 95, 85, 100, AW (49), EM (143), 25, 42, 8, 47, 111  
> To Do: 41, 81, 145, 114, 52, 111, 135, 26, 37, 53, 58, 101
> 
> (Unbeta'd and unbritpicked.)

"Molly! Molly! Look, it's got a smiley face on the side!" his voice came from Molly's phone, tinny and distant as she held it outside his reach. He was in a pond, holding a fish aloft.

He didn't remember it. Or much of anything after pulling Molly away from the desserts table.

He made a swipe for the phone anyway and regretted it immediately, his stomach roiling. "Delete it. Now," he gritted out. It sounded entirely too much like a whine.

"Nope, and I already made back-up copies and hid them where you can't find them."

He narrowed his eyes at her. She _did_ know who he was, didn't she?

Oh, right, she did. Too well; she knew all his blind spots.

"You're not as nice as people think you are," he said, letting his pounding head fall back on the sofa cushions.

"Being this cute has its perks," she said, smiling.

How was she not hungover? She'd had as much as him. Well, almost. Maybe? He vaguely remembered taking her glass when there wasn't a waiter with a drinks tray nearby. Like three times.

"And among those are what? Shopping in the children's section and being turned away from half the rides at a funfair because you don't reach the line on the clown?"

"Just so you know, I have more video. I didn't know you knew how to pole dance. Did you take classes or just practice on your own? Lessons from Mrs. Hudson, maybe?"

"You're just making that up."

"Oh, if only I were. I even got a private encore. If I may direct your attention to your pants?" she said, pointing up. They were indeed hanging off her chandelier.

He groaned and closed his eyes. At least that wasn't the first time she'd seen him naked. Or taken pictures of him naked, actually, if one counted his postmortem glamour shots.

A vague memory tickled the surface of his memory.

Wait.

Did they...?

No, surely he'd remember every last detail of _that_.

Oh God he was a horrible person.

All he could smell on himself was pond water and alcohol, so that didn't provide any clues.

"Think you can manage some toast?" she asked, showing the first bit of mercy since waking him with that ridiculous video.

He swallowed against a fresh wave of nausea. "No," he croaked.

He did desperately need the loo, though; he forced himself to his feet, swaying before he found his balance. "Did I at least dress myself?" he asked, thankful he was wearing pyjamas.

"Mostly, though it took some convincing. You know they have clubs for people like you. There's even an entire village in St. Alban's."

"People like—?"

"Naturists."

"Nudity is nothing to be ashamed of," he defended, wondering if he could lock himself in her bathroom until she left for work Monday morning.

...which triggered the memory of locking them in the bogs at the party.

 _Oh bollocks_.

So had they?

"Apparently," she said from the kitchen, entirely too amused for the situation. Maybe she'd been drunk enough to forget? "You've got very little to be ashamed of."

Was that a compliment or an insult? "I'm a grower, not a shower," he blurted before he realized he'd opened his mouth. Maybe he'd get lucky and strike oil before getting to China, with how deep he was digging himself.

"Oh, I know," she said. "And what a show it was. Oh! And I saved these for you," she said, grabbing something off the worktop and coming back into the lounge. She handed him a jar with half a dozen leeches in the bottom.

"How thoughtful. And I didn't get you anything," he said dryly.

"Day's still young. I can think of a few ways for you to show suitable gratitude," she said.

Was that...? Was she propositioning him?

"You can start by getting your pants down from the light."

Oh. Well then.

At least he was probably finally barred from any and all Holmes gatherings for the rest of eternity.

 


	41. "Take notes, sweetheart."/ "Excuse me for falling in love with you."/ "What’s the biggest lie you ever told?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr drabble challenge ask meme (a different one this time).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by mistykins06: New Drabble meme with fantastic options? How about: 41("Take notes, sweetheart."), 81("Excuse me for falling in love with you.") and 145("What’s the biggest lie you ever told?")? Separately is fine ( I say far too casually to be believed) or together (I shrug) ya know. Whatever works for you... 
> 
> This is the new list: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/143272225898/drabble-challenge-1-150  
> Finished: 10, 54, 62, 108, k(11), u(21), n(14), t(20), 82, 132, 37, 95, 85, 100, AW (49), EM (143), 25, 42, 8, 47, 111, 41, 81, 145  
> To Do: 114, 52, 111, 135, 26, 37, 53, 58, 101
> 
> (Unbeta'd and unbritpicked.)
> 
> This fell out of the badfic tree and hit just about every trope on the way down. Also in the same 'verse as Chapter 35.

_Win a Mystery Date with Sherlock Holmes!_ the splash page to John's blog read. The whole background was a high-res picture of Sherlock (John had changed the format again, making it more like one of those trendy think-piece magazine blogs that you had to scroll forever just to get past the damn header), deerstalker tugged down low and coat lapels held closed over his face, leaving just his eyes visible, electric blue and intense as always. He must have been in the sun a bit before the picture was taken, she could just make out a few errant freckles (the existence of which he vehemently denied) dusting his cheekbones.

_Would not mind waking up to that every morning_ , she thought, then remembered that she did, in fact, wake up next to that three or four mornings out of seven. Except the one she woke up to usually had his face smashed into the pillow with drool crusted in the corner of his mouth and Tim Burton hair.

"I'm telling you, you need to do posters," Molly said, shifting the phone against her ear so she could type. "How did you get him to agree to it?"

Mary laughed on the other end. "You really think we told him? Seriously though, it was his idea. Seems like he's got a stalker."

"Oh, that's just Anderson," Molly dismissed, typing a reply to one of the new comments on her latest video.

"No, a real one," Sherlock said from directly behind her. She jumped, shouting as her phone clattered onto the keyboard.

"Where did you even come from?" she accused, picking her phone up. "Sorry," she apologized to Mary.

"They have these new things called doors. Rather frivolous, I doubt they'll catch on," Sherlock said, dragging 'his' chair over and flopping into it, nudging her out of the way of the keyboard.

"Well, I believe that's my cue. Damien will be up from her nap soon, anyway," Mary rung off.

Molly set her phone down and turned to Sherlock, who was, as always, too close for comfort. "So you have a stalker," she said. She wasn't going to get her computer back anytime soon.

"Actually, _you_ have a stalker. I started getting threats after that stupid YouTube video."

"That was two months ago! You're just telling me now?"

"I do get quite a lot of threats. Didn't notice at first. You're perfectly safe. Well, for now, at least, but that's why we're nipping this in the bud."

"So how is a fan going on a date with you going to catch my stalker?"

Sherlock looked at her askance, obviously waiting for her to catch up.

Oh. Of course. "I'm going to win the contest, aren't I?"

Sherlock tipped his head and went back to typing. In _her_ comments, while logged into _her_ account. That tit. "We're filming it and live-tweeting it, too. Mary said something about cross-promotion or advertising or... I don't know, I stopped listening after 'scavenger hunt.'"

"So... this wasn't your idea?"

"Using you as bait was. The rest was all Mary. She's better at this sort of thing than I am."

"Because she's a woman?" It was nicer than saying 'because she'd actually been on a date.'

"Because she's an _assassin_. She's got more experience with ambushes."

*

"Oh for—would you stop looking around like that? This is a _date_. We are on a _date_. Not a stakeout," Sherlock hissed from behind his menu.

"But it _is_ a stakeout," Molly said, tone measured.

"Mary, God's sake stop laughing, by the time you're done editing there'll be fifteen seconds of usable content."

Mary coughed and forced her face into something serious. "Just read the consolation prize card."

Sherlock sighed and looked heavenward, pulling a card from inside his jacket.

"I swear his suits are like a Tardis. He carries all this stuff around and you can never tell. He's got like a cricket bat, an espresso machine, and a badger in there, it's ridiculous," Molly said quietly to Mary. "Pretty sure he's got like half a pipe band and an entire double-decker bus in his coat."

"If you're quite finished?" Sherlock said. He plastered on a fake smile. "And our third-prize winner in the 'Win a Mystery Date with Sherlock Holmes' contest is MarkOfTheBeast420—"

"...isn't that Mrs. Hudson?" Molly whispered to Mary.

"No, she's 221BlazeIt," Mary corrected.

"Ah, right."

Sherlock raised his voice a little to show his displeasure with being interrupted (git; served him right) "—who gets dinner for two at Angelo's in central London and your choice of pink phone case or pocket-magnifier from the ScienceOfDeduction store."

"Where there's always a candle on the table," Angelo said, leaning into the frame in front of Sherlock to place a candle conspicuously on the table while smiling nervously into the camera.

"Yes, thank you, do remember to order off-menu, no request too exotic," Sherlock said as Angelo stepped back. He stuck the corner of the card into the lit candle, flames quickly crawling up the edge to consume half of it before he dropped it off to the side (which happened to be onto the plate of one of the diners at the next table over).

It was going to be a long day, Molly thought.

*

"—passes for two and a copy of _The Man Who Made Vermeers_. I might actually like to read this," Molly said, flipping the book around and looking at the back cover.

"I have it at home, you can borrow it," Sherlock said.

"Is it any good?"

Sherlock bobbed his head and did a little wiggle that indicated 'not bad.'

Molly shrugged and set the book down, then tried to act natural as she walked to her mark. "Oh look, our next clue," she said. It was a typographic poster on an easel; Mary didn't really go all out. Budget constraints.

"'What’s the biggest lie you ever told?' Really?" Sherlock scowled at Mary.

"Size doesn't matter," Molly answered quickly, wanting to beat him to the punch on just one of the clues.

"Wh—?"

"The question, aren't we doing the thing? So, ah, something small like Vienna sausages?"

"No," Sherlock said slowly, "I think you need to go a bit deeper than that."

Molly opened her mouth, then closed it and shook her head. She shared a look with Mary; _too easy_.

Sherlock closed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

*

"So you really think it's a good idea to bring my stalker to the place I work," Molly said as they went through the main doors of the hospital.

"We'll spot him from the roof. And Mary says it'll make a great texture shot."

*

"How long do we have to be up here?" Molly asked, fists balled in her cardigan. It had been a nice day, but the weather had turned overcast and a fine mist of rain had begun to fall.

"Until the stalker shows. Next bus is in five. Probably on it," Sherlock said.

Mary had turned the camera off to save battery, moving to the far end of the roof to call John to check in.

"Honestly, I don't know why we needed this plan in the first place. There have to be easier ways of catching a stalker in the act. And getting blog traffic. I mean, we could have just turned it over to the police, let them handle it."

"Yes, because we both know how competent they are."

She was cold, she was tired, and she was feeling a bit bitchy. "Did everything have to be so elaborate, though? I mean, maybe he had to work today or something and wasn't even following us. Or, I dunno, maybe it's just some troll. Maybe you're overreacting to the whole thing. You don't have to be so... _protective_ of everyone all the time."

"Excuse me for falling in love with you," he muttered.

There's no way she heard _that_ right. "You wha—?"

"I said 'Excuse me for failing to find the clue.' If I'd been able to find the stalker through more conventional means, I would have," he sniffed, turning away to look over the side of the roof again.

_Yeah, that's_ _ **really not**_ _what he said_ , Molly thought, but wasn't about to press the issue. At least, 1.) not on a rooftop, 2.) in the rain, and 3.) with Mary there.

Of course, that was when the door to the roof banged open and eleven stone of weedy, surprisingly-otherwise-normal-if-a-bit-young stalker came loping through brandishing a knife and babbling something about 'don't know how to treat a goddess, Mistress Molly deserves respect, phony blah blah, tosser blah blah.' Sherlock moved in front of her because he really was that protective, hands up and trying to placate rather than provoke.

That is, until Mary jumped the stalker from behind and locked an arm around his neck, digging a thumb into his wrist so he dropped the knife.

"Take notes, sweetheart," she grunted. "This is how you do a choke-hold, not those weak little lady-hugs that you give."

Molly peeked out from behind Sherlock to watch the struggle, briefly glancing at Sherlock, who still looked affronted.

"Lady-hugs," he grumbled. Then, glancing down at her, "Might want to get hospital security on the phone."

*

"—and if you click the link below, you'll find a discount coupon for 10% off any sarnie combo from Speedy's! And, ah, that's the end of my Mystery Date with Sherlock Holmes. Bye!" Molly waved at the camera; Sherlock clamped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer.

"Aww, that was cute," Mary said, turning off the camera and capping the lens. She promised to get a copy of the raw footage to Molly the next day and there were hugs and cheek kisses goodbye and then Molly was left standing alone outside of Speedy's. Well, alone with Sherlock, who was looking a bit shifty.

"So would you, uh, like to come up for coffee?" he asked.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "We just had coffee. Are you trying to trick me into washing your dishes again?"

"No," he said. "I've just heard it's the done thing when a date goes particularly well."

"So you think our fake date went well?" she asked. She might have been flirting, just a little, little bit.

"We _did_ catch a violent stalker."

"And I did get to go to a planetarium."

"So exciting you fell asleep," he remarked, but there was no real bite to it.

She smiled at him and he smiled at her; it was definitely a moment.

"You know, I think I will have that cup of coffee," she said.

 


	42. "No, you’re MY bitch."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr drabble challenge ask meme (a different one this time).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by waiting-to-be-distributed: Can I ask for 114 ("No, you’re MY bitch.") from the new list?? Please and thanks :) 
> 
> This is the new list: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/143272225898/drabble-challenge-1-150
> 
> Finished: 10, 54, 62, 108, k(11), u(21), n(14), t(20), 82, 132, 37, 95, 85, 100, AW (49), EM (143), 25, 42, 8, 47, 111, 41, 81, 145, 114  
> To Do: 52, 111, 135, 26, 37, 53, 58, 101
> 
> (Unbeta'd and unbritpicked.)

"Why does your wife have Molly in a headlock?" Sherlock asked, pulling up short when he saw whatever was happening in the middle of the lounge in 221A.

"Tea with Mrs. Hudson turned into wrestling lessons."

Sherlock opened his mouth, looked confused, and closed it again.

"Apparently George 'The Animal' Steele was her neighbour in Cocoa Beach, something about Hulk Hogan's gym... I stopped listening after she started talking about doing lines with Cyndi Lauper off Brutus Beefcake's arse," John offered anyway, watching Molly stamp her foot and reverse out of the hold.

"You're my bitch now, Mary the Mauler!" Molly shouted, twisting Mary's arm behind her back in a way that didn't look painful at all.

"Molly's the heel," John said quietly to Sherlock.

"Right, now Mary, this is where you back her into the turnbuckle," Mrs Hudson instructed, watching proudly.

They walked backwards three steps before Molly pretended to be squashed against something and dropped Mary's arm, doubling over when Mary turned away from her. Mary grabbed her by the hair and pulled her forward, one arm raised in the air in triumph, working the imaginary crowd.

She gave her husband a meaningful look.

"Woo," John cheered with about as much enthusiasm as one feels for cold porridge.

"Now give her the knee," Mrs. Hudson coached.

Molly held on to Mary's arms and jumped back long before Mary's knee got close to even appearing like it connected with her gut; she really wasn't good at timing. Mary let go of her hair and Molly threw herself onto the carpet, wiggling her arse in the air as she tried to struggle to her hands and knees.

Sherlock swallowed and breathed through his nose.

"Stomp," Mrs. Hudson directed.

Mary jumped and brought her stocking foot down on Molly's back; Molly plastered herself to the carpet before rolling onto her back. To anyone else, it would look like she was in genuine pain, but Sherlock knew her trying-not-to-laugh face. She wouldn't last more than a minute.

"Finish her off," Mrs. Hudson said, hands clasped in front of her, looking proud.

"Sharpshooter?" Mary whispered to Molly.

Molly nodded, probably not trusting herself to speak without losing it.

"No, you're MY bitch, Mad Molly!" Mary said, playing to the crowd again as she stepped between Molly's legs and locked them over her knee before twisting.

Molly rolled onto her stomach and Mary pulled her legs back until Molly's back bowed, her hips completely off the ground.

Sherlock had never been more grateful that he'd already had his coat on; he knew Molly had a yoga class twice a week, but he had no idea she was _that_ flexible. Adding Mary to the mix was a bit confusing and uncomfortable, but apparently his penis's only response was 'the more the merrier!'

Molly tapped out and Mary released her; Mary threw her arms in the air and played to the crowd, winking and blowing John a kiss while Molly rolled onto her back again and finally broke down laughing.

"Right, that's us," John said, grabbing Mary's coat and bag from where it was draped over the back of a chair.

"But we have a case," Sherlock said, snapping out of his daze.

"No, you have a case. I have a wife that's going to want to celebrate her championship win."

Sherlock scowled. As though sex was more interesting than a murder. Still not as bad as the display he'd had to bear witness to after Mrs. Hudson had taught them some of her exotic dancing moves, though. He had yet to decide if he was grateful or disappointed he hadn't got his own lap dance that day; some doors were best left unopened, he supposed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched GLOW last weekend. Nuff said.


	43. "Just sleep with one eye open, that’s all I’m saying"/ "Delete it. Now."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr drabble challenge ask meme (a different one this time).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by reesiesteve: 52 ("Just sleep with one eye open, that’s all I’m saying") & 111 ("Delete it. Now.") if you please? 
> 
> This is the new list: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/143272225898/drabble-challenge-1-150
> 
> Finished: 10, 54, 62, 108, k(11), u(21), n(14), t(20), 82, 132, 37, 95, 85, 100, AW (49), EM (143), 25, 42, 8, 47, 111, 41, 81, 145, 114, 52, 111  
> To Do: 135, 26, 37, 53, 58, 101
> 
> (Unbeta'd and unbritpicked.)

"Playing Monopoly with Molly Hooper. She is a slumlord and a plutocrat," Sherlock enunciated as he typed.

"Don't you tweet that," Molly warned from the other side of the coffee table.

Sherlock looked at her and very deliberately tapped the screen with his thumb. "Oops."

Molly set her jaw and closed her eyes.

"The voice of the people will not be silenced by their oppressors. I'll rescind the tweet if you agree to free up the housing market by building hotels."

"I'll build hotels when I get Waterworks and Reading Railroad."

"Then we again find ourselves at an impasse."

"Hardly an impasse, you've mortgaged Park Place. Good luck getting that back. I could sit out the rest of the game in jail and you'd still lose."

Sherlock snapped a picture and typed up a caption, hitting send just before Molly made a swipe over the table for his phone, sending the Chance deck and half her houses skittering over the board.

"Delete it. Now."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her.

 _Oh_ , she thought. _It's on_.

*

"'This is the face of tyranny,'" she read out loud. A least it wasn't a terrible picture of her.

"'Being shut down by The Man!'" That picture wasn't so flattering, but at least it was of Sherlock himself when she'd had her hand planted on his face, pushing him into the carpet right before she finally got his phone.

It really didn't say much for her fighting skills that he could tweet while she was trying to wrestle him into submission.

"Oh lovely, now you're getting responses. 'Down with fascism,' 'Rise my proletariat brothers and sisters, the time is upon us,' oh, and one from The Home Office, 'Please refrain from live-tweeting your sex-games.' Your brother does know we're not sleeping together, right?"

"Technically we are sleeping together," Sherlock wheezed into the carpet.

She ignored that, he was just being pedantic for the sake of it. She should probably get off his chest, she thought; at least she removed her hand from his face.

"Are we going to finish the game, or are you going to just sit there and slowly crush the life from me? Pressing was how they killed witches, not dissenters, by the way."

"Thank you Mr. Peabody," Molly said, hauling herself off him. She kept his phone, which started going wild with message notifications.

"Oh shit," she said quietly, looking at the messages scrolling past. "I think you started a riot in East Ham."

*

Sherlock sprawled next to Molly on the sofa, standoffish as always; Mycroft stared them down from his perch on Molly's armchair.

"And so what did we learn today?"

"That civility is a thin veneer over the powder keg that is end-stage capitalism and any match will do?" Sherlock asked, smarmy.

"That Sherlock is a sore loser who doesn't understand how to work within the rules of a given system to exploit them to their full potential," Molly replied, turning to Sherlock and blanking her face while raising her eyebrows in an expression that was something between innocent and 'say something else, I dare you.'

"That social media is not a toy and one should treat it with discretion," Mycroft scolded. "Honestly, Ms. Hooper, I thought you were a good influence on my brother but I'm rather... disappointed in you. We'll not have a repeat of this incident, will we?"

"No," Molly answered tartly. When Sherlock didn't answer, she reached over and pinched him.

"She pinched me, did you see that? Molly pinched me," he said, grabbing his side like she'd stabbed him. Which was coming, if he ended up getting her arrested or deported or God-only-knew what Mycroft could and would do.

Mycroft closed his eyes and (probably) silently prayed for strength.

*

"He can't really make Monopoly illegal, can he?" Molly asked, sorting her substantial fortune into the correct slots in the bank. She'd let Sherlock do the honours of bulldozing the remaining tenements that her jumper hadn't dislodged during her initial lunge across the coffee table.

"He _is_ the British Government."

"If I end up in jail... Just sleep with one eye open, that’s all I’m saying," Molly said.

"For that, I won't put money on your canteen account," Sherlock said, turning the same blanked look on her that she'd turned on him earlier. "And I think you'll be the one sleeping with one eye open. We've both seen Orange Is the New Black. You know what can happen."

Molly narrowed her eyes. She never should have watched that while he was in the flat. Then again, he was in her flat all the damn time. "Yeah, well, you know what happens to snitches in prison, then."

"They have a higher quality of life and get favours from the guards."

"They get stitches."

"Not from you, I hope, your stitches are terrible. You make everything look like it was done by a drunken taxidermist with dental floss and an upholstery needle." The corner of Sherlock's lip twitched; he could only go for so long sometimes before he broke.

"Funny, I've never had a complaint," Molly said breezily.

"Can't imagine the reason why..."

At least this time when she wrestled him to the ground, he didn't tweet about it.

 


	44. "Sing to me, please."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr drabble challenge ask meme (a different one this time).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by lilsherlockian1975: #135 ("Sing to me, please.") please (the new list) 
> 
> This is the new list: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/143272225898/drabble-challenge-1-150
> 
> Finished: 10, 54, 62, 108, k(11), u(21), n(14), t(20), 82, 132, 37, 95, 85, 100, AW (49), EM (143), 25, 42, 8, 47, 111, 41, 81, 145, 114, 52, 111, 135  
> To Do: 26, 37, 53, 58, 101
> 
> (Unbeta'd and unbritpicked.)

She really didn't know how she got herself into these things, sometimes.

Well, she _did_ , but she really had to learn to say no to _those eyes_ and _that mouth_ and everything else that was attached to them. And the bribe in the form of a nice dinner didn't hurt to grease the wheels, either.

 _Who needs Yelp when you've got Sherlock Holmes?_ she thought to herself, tossing another handful of bread to the pigeons.

The old man on the other end of the park bench keeled over, clutching his chest dramatically before slumping to the pavements. It was her cue.

Joggers and casual strollers were drawn to the scene; from the corner of her eye she caught Wiggins slip from where he'd been loitering by a tree.

"It's okay, I'm a doctor," she said, then went through the whole routine of sir-can-you-hear-me and tell-me-what's-wrong, checking vitals while being careful of the make-up.

She dragged it out as long as she could. She looked around for Wiggins; he should have pick-pocketed his mark by now. What the hell was taking him so long?

"Yes—I need an ambulance in St. James Park, near the lake, by, um... I don't know, but- where you feed the ducks," one of the on-lookers said into her phone.

 _Bollocks._ "Can you tell me your name, sir? Is there someone I can phone?" Molly folded her scarf and put it under Sherlock's head.

"A light! I can see a light!" he said, weakly reaching out into nothing.

"Don't go into the light!" one of the onlookers yelled. Molly gave him a Look and the youngish bloke stepped back, cowed. There was always one.

"Helen? Helen dearest, is that you? I'm so cold. S-sing to me, please," Sherlock said, clutching her hand.

 _Oh, you massive arsehole_ , she said clearly with her expression. "I, ah, I don't know what you want to hear." So much for ad-libbing.

"Our song, of course. You remember, when we first met, it was on the wireless..." he wheezed theatrically.

 _I'm going to cut off your airway so you really can't breathe, you tit_ , she thought. "I'm afraid I don't remember, er, darling," she said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock broke character for a split-second to widen his eyes into something that telegraphed 'think of something before you ruin this, buy us time!'

 _Fucking Wiggins_ , she snarled in her head. "Oh, yes, ah, I do remember." She cleared her throat and started to sing the first thing that came to mind, the actual song that had been on the radio in the lab the first time she met Sherlock. Which she only remembered because it had been stuck in her head for a week afterwards.

"Blue jean baby, LA lady," she sang threadily. "Seamstress for the ba~aand..."

Sherlock shot her a look that said 'Really?'

"Pretty eyes... Pirate smile... Marry a music ma~aan..."

"Gramps? Gramps, 'zat you?"

"Oh thank God," Molly muttered. Took his sweet-arse time.

Wiggins pushed through the crowd of onlookers and dropped to Sherlock's side. "Got your medicine right here, Gramps, fix ya right up," he said, shaking a Tic-Tac out of a pill bottle and shoving it in Sherlock's mouth.

A siren wailed in the distance.

"Thank you, Billy," Sherlock said, sitting up. He sprang to his feet. "Thank you for your assistance doctor, you've a lovely singing voice," he said before legging it, Wiggins hot on his heels.

When she got her hands on him...

 


	45. "I'm stuck! Help me!"/ "I had a dream about you"/ "Take off your shirt."/ "You’re never this quiet, what’s wrong?"/ "You don’t hate me, quit lying to yourself."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr drabble challenge ask meme (a different one this time).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two requests and five prompts in one again (sorry guys, they just flowed together again in a way that kind of made sense)
> 
> Requested by everchanging101: Hi, I just read everything you wrote on ao3 and I love your writing style. You are a very talented writer! Are you still taking prompts? If so, 26 "I'm stuck! Help me!" and/or 37 "I had a dream about you". Thank you!  
> anonymous: Are you still taking requests for drabble meme? If so, then 53 (Take off your shirt.), 58 (You’re never this quiet, what’s wrong?) and/or 101 (You don’t hate me, quit lying to yourself.) please. Thank you. I love your fics way too much. 
> 
> This is the new list: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/143272225898/drabble-challenge-1-150
> 
> Finished: 10, 54, 62, 108, k(11), u(21), n(14), t(20), 82, 132, 37, 95, 85, 100, AW (49), EM (143), 25, 42, 8, 47, 111, 41, 81, 145, 114, 52, 111, 135, 26, 37, 53, 58, 101  
> To Do: 33, 59
> 
> (Unbeta'd and unbritpicked.)

"You want me to crawl in there?" Molly repeated flatly.

"That is what I said, yes. Torch." Sherlock held out said torch with one of his crinkly smiles.

"It's official. I hate you."

"You don’t hate me, quit lying to yourself. It's perfectly safe, I would have phoned Archie, but he's got some kind of sports... match... thing, and you're the next smallest person I know."

Molly grabbed the torch with a scowl and crawled into the dumbwaiter. "If I get trapped, you better not forget and leave me in here until some workman finds my skeleton in twenty years."

"You won't get trapped, up you go," he said, pushing on her bum rather unnecessarily. Git.

*

"So I mean..."

"Just needs some oil," Sherlock grunted, pulling down on the door of the dumbwaiter with all his weight.

"And you don't carry that with you, too? You've got everything else in your coat, it's like Batman's utility belt. Probably have shark repellent in there." She muttered the last bit to herself.

*

"You should be able to wiggle out through the opening. Once you get your arms out I'll help you through," he said, peering in at her through the eight-inch gap in the doors. The oil had helped a little bit, but obviously not enough.

"You're kidding me, right?"

He looked at her blankly.

She resisted the urge to shine the torch in his eyes. She sighed; nothing for it. She handed him her phone and the torch and went out arms-first, managing to get her head and shoulders through the opening.

"I'm stuck! Help me!"

Sherlock pulled on her arms, but she couldn't get past her chest, the irony of which was not lost on her. He opened his mouth and she gave him a look that promised eternal torment if he said any variation of what she knew he was going to.

"Take off your shirt," he said instead.

"I—wh—?"

"Your jumper, it's too bulky. Back in you get, hand it out to me and try again. Shoes too. And try facing up this time, not looking at the floor."

*

"Oil."

"Yes. I'll get your back, you can get your, um," he gestured vaguely to his chest.

"This is a new bra, I've only worn it twice!"

"Going to need to lose that, too. We want gravity to work with us..." he cleared his throat and looked away. "Probably the trousers, too. I hesitate to say pants as well, but your bottom is rather... round, so preparing for the eventuality of—"

"Shut. Up. Give me the goddamn oil," she gritted out, passing her bra out through the opening.

*

"So you stripped to your pants because..."

"My shirt cost £200, I'm not going to ruin it. I'm not even going to bother telling you what the suit cost."

"When I get out of here, I'm going to murder you. Violently."

"Is now really the appropriate time for flirting?" he deadpanned, wrapping his arms around her ribs just below her breasts and pulling.

"I had a dream about you. In it, you _shut up_ ," she grunted, the edge of the dumbwaiter door scraping the skin of her bum rather painfully.

*

"You’re never this quiet, what’s wrong?"

"I'm sitting in a cab wearing only a sheet that smells like dust and cat wee after recreating the birth experience from an infant's perspective."

"You could've got dressed again."

"I'm covered in cod liver oil from a bottle that I'm fairly certain managed to make it through both wars. My wardrobe might not cost the same as the GDP of Micronesia, but I rather like my clothing and didn't want to have to bin it."

"Well, at least we solved the case, that's the important thing," Sherlock said, very deliberately looking out the window.

*

"So it was actually dwarves?" Greg asked. Always better to let Sherlock do the weird ones, he thought; even if he didn't get the credit, at least he didn't get a reputation for being out there.

"I think 'little people' is the preferred term. And yes, secret passage between floors. Lord Fitzsimmons was famous for keeping trained primates of various species, used them as servants, built a network of passages all through the house for them. Rather ingenious, though probably wouldn't go over too well with the animal rights crowd these days," Sherlock said.

Molly cleared her throat; she stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the lounge with a sour look on her face, her hair wrapped in a towel and swimming in one of Sherlock's t-shirts and a pair of his boxer shorts. She held up a tube of ointment and glared.

Greg looked between the two of them. "Well, I'll just, ah, go get this written up, then," he said, backing towards the door. He didn't have the full story about how she got out of the dumbwaiter, he was sure, but he had a very good idea that it hadn't been pleasant. Much as he'd like a front-row seat to Sherlock taking his lumps, he didn't want to inadvertently get caught in the crossfire.

"Yes, seems I have rather a lot of arse to kiss after today," Sherlock muttered, seeing him out.

"Literally or figuratively?" Greg shot, hoping to catch him off-guard enough to get a candid response and finally answer _that_ question. The betting pool wasn't as big, but twenty quid was twenty quid.

"I can hear you both, you know," Molly said. "And so help me God if you insinuate one more time that I have a big arse—"

"Figuratively, then," Greg said, just before Sherlock gave him a tight smile and closed the door in his face.

 


	46. "The door’s locked." / "…or we could make out…"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr drabble challenge ask meme (a different one this time).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by biroba:I just saw that someone had already asked for the number 53, so: 33. The door’s locked. / 59.…or we could make out…. 
> 
> This is the new list: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/143272225898/drabble-challenge-1-150
> 
> Finished: 10, 54, 62, 108, k(11), u(21), n(14), t(20), 82, 132, 37, 95, 85, 100, AW (49), EM (143), 25, 42, 8, 47, 111, 41, 81, 145, 114, 52, 111, 135, 26, 37, 53, 58, 101, 33, 59  
> To Do: NONE I FINISHED FINALLY HUZZAH
> 
> (Unbeta'd and unbritpicked.)

"The door’s locked."

"Of course it is," Molly said, throwing her hands in the air. Because obviously someone taped the hand-written 'Door locks automatically, use brick!' sign to it for shits and giggles.

They cast about the loading dock; the thief had gone over the chain-link fence.

"Don't even think it," Molly said, looking at Sherlock as he eyed the fence. He could go over just fine; her, not so much. Maybe if she weren't wearing a pencil skirt and kitten heels... "Next time you say 'dress like an office lady,' I'm going to assume you mean Special Forces commando."

Sherlock huffed and got out his phone.

"Wiggins'll be here within the hour with bolt cutters," he said after he got a return text.

"Why does it have to be him? Why can't it be John or Mary or even Greg?"

"Yes, let's have probably the most well-known copper in all of London stroll on up to a literal den of thieves and say 'pardon me gents, mind if I have a gander at your loading dock? No, no reason, certainly not trying to rescue someone who's absolutely not Sherlock Holmes from an undercover operation that definitely won't put half of you lot in jail,'" Sherlock hissed, pulling Molly off to a weird little alcove on the side of the building that probably once had a reason for existing, but was now just a quirk of architecture that collected debris. "What's the matter with Wiggins, anyway?"

"He always asks me about zombies. He legitimately thinks an actual zombie apocalypse is coming."

"I know, I've seen the warren he calls a flat. Consequently, if there ever is an apocalypse—zombie or otherwise—and Mycroft is unavailable, I know where we're going," Sherlock answered, leaning out of the alcove to keep an eye on the alley.

"Where _we're_ going?" Molly repeated.

"Well we can hardly stay at yours, we could maybe live off of the contents of your cupboards for a week before we resorted to eating spices straight from the jar and chasing them with enough alcohol to drown half of Ireland," he elaborated, apparently not picking up on or simply ignoring her question.

"So if it were the end of the world, you'd... save me?" she asked, feeling a bit warm.

"Of course I would, don't be stupid. You have a relatively high IQ, you're a doctor and you have a host of other useful skills, you probably have time to bear at least three children assuming single births at two-year intervals—"

"So you'd save me to be a brood sow," she said flatly. "You make it sound so romantic."

"I'd save you because you're my _friend_ ," he said. "And of course we'd have to do our part to repopulate the Earth."

She gave him an unimpressed look.

"I might have thought about it a bit. Wiggins talks. A lot. Especially when you don't want him to. He makes some surprisingly convincing arguments. When he's coherent."

"Arguments as to why I should bear you your own pack of War Boys after civilization collapses."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her before turning back towards the alley. Another reference right over his head, and he'd even seen the film. He'd even _liked_ the film.

"Arguments as to why a strong partnership would be more important in a post-apocalyptic world than it is in our current society."

"So you think we have a strong partnership?" Molly asked, butterflies in her stomach. This wasn't a thing they talked about. Ever. Or even alluded to.

"You did help me fake my death and keep it a secret from everyone you knew for two years. And we always win at Pictionary against John and Mary."

"There's a useful skill when we're being chased by a herd of undead," she deadpanned.

"Yes, because we obviously already have an effective system of nonverbal communication."

_True_ , she thought, cocking her head.

_See?_ Sherlock's raised-eyebrow-face-tilt said.

They fell quiet then, the mood tense and kind of weird.

*

"Oh my _God_ what's taking him so long? Did the zombie apocalypse actually start?" Molly said, leaning against the brick and scuffing her heel across the concrete.

"It hasn't even been ten minutes," Sherlock said, looking at his watch, then checking his phone again. He'd stopped watching the alley because there was really nothing _to_ watch; no one knew they were back there but the thief and _he_ wasn't telling anybody, since he'd been double-crossing all his partners anyway.

"I spy someth—"

"No."

"I'm thinking of a number between one and—"

"Nope. But thirteen, because you always pick thirteen."

He wasn't wrong. "Capitols?"

Sherlock looked at her, face completely blank, as though she was so dull that it had robbed him of his will to live.

"You wanna make out?" Molly joked. The silence had been unbearable and she didn't want to go back to it so soon.

That was enough to startle him. He narrowed his eyes again. "Are you suddenly channelling your inner American or is that from a film?"

" _Ha-ha_. Probably a film? Or TV. Nothing specific, though. Just, ah, go back to watching the wall or whatever you were doing," she said, feeling like she'd suddenly metamorphosed into an ass a la Loony Tunes.

"...Or we could make out…" Sherlock said nonchalantly.

It was Molly's turn to narrow her eyes. Was he serious?

"You were the one to suggest it," Sherlock defended.

"Okay," she said, thinking he wouldn't.

"Okay," he said, turning his body to face her. "Mint?" he asked, holding out an open tin of Barkleys.

"Thank you," she said, taking one. "Oh God, it's aniseed, are you ninety?" she asked, making a face. Spitting it out would be rude.

Sherlock scowled and sucked on his own mint as he squirrelled the tin away again. "You know the ancient Romans actu—" he began, then cut himself off when she stepped closer.

She really didn't care what flavour the mint was. This might be her literal, actual, only chance ever to get to kiss Sherlock because obviously the stars aligned and just so and probably never would again.

She tilted her face up to him; he looked about as nervous as she felt. She pushed up on her toes and he bent down a bit; they both stopped when their faces were inches apart.

"This feels like a game of gay chicken," she said, her voice hushed. "Except, we're, ah, not... gay. Or, well, it would only be gay chicken if you were a girl..."

"Are you stalling?" he asked.

"I'm not stalling, you're stalling."

"I'm not the one who said this was like g—"

She cut him off mid-word, since it was just getting ridiculous and there was nothing to be afraid of because it was only a kiss and she'd done more as a bored teenager and it didn't mean anything, it was just for a laugh...

Except it wasn't. It really, really wasn't. It was a proper kiss, the kind that made her toes curl and her skin tingle and stole her breath. Oh dear.

*

"So, if you got bit, right, like say on the hand, or any extremity, would cutting it off right away actually work if it was a virus?" Wiggins asked, leaning around Sherlock to look at her. He made a chopping motion with his hand just above his wrist. She wasn't sure why he was in the cab with them.

"Depends on the virus and exposure to the bloodstream," she answered, because why not? She'd just had the snog of her life against a brick wall in an alleyway and she was fairly certain that once they lost their Cockney Daryl Dixon, she was going to have the shag of her life in whichever flat was closer, hers or Sherlock's. Plus, it would probably be good to stay in Wiggins' good books, since he might end up being the godfather to their post-apocalyptic Holmes tribe...

 


	47. "You didn’t have to marry me, you know"/ "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."/ "Your brother told me all about it."/ "Put your hands where I can see them."/ "I’m soaked."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just can't stop myself, apparently. Three requests and five prompts in one this time.
> 
> Requested by mizjoely: 17: You didn’t have to marry me, you know (for Sherlolly of course, thanks!)  
> Requested by an anon: 95 (Vegas) and 72 (your brother told me all about it), pretty please! Thank you for the writing these, I'm really enjoying them!  
> Requested by biroba: For the Drabble Challenge, please: 84. Put your hands where I can see them/ 105. I’m soaked 
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge  
> Filled:17, 95, 72, 84, 105  
> Yet to be filled: 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73

"You didn’t _have_ to  marry me, you know," Molly said, twisting her new ring. She wasn't sure, but she thought her finger was beginning to turn green.

"When in Rome..." Sherlock replied, flipping open his sunglasses one-handed and slipping them on, steering Molly toward the chapel doors with his arm around her shoulders. "We'll have it annulled before we leave. Or get a divorce, or whatever it is people do."

Molly winced as they hit the outside; between the sun and the heat she was fairly certain they were actually on the surface of Mercury and not the American Southwest. Though she wasn't sure there was much of a difference, anyway.

"Can your suit get any shinier? It's like you're wearing tinfoil," she said, squinting as she tottered along to the car park. When he unveiled that part of their cover story, she'd emptied the contents of the hotel mini-bar into her handbag; she'd worked her way through at least half of it in the car on the way to the licensing bureau.

"Ugh don't remind me. Never should have let them talk me into sharkskin in light grey, even if it is just for the case. Give me that pack of ten-dollar M&M's, I can still taste the gin you had for lunch in my mouth," he said, sliding into the front seat of the convertible he'd hired because apparently 'every cliche about Las Vegas ever' was part of the cover, too. Pity they hadn't got married in the actual car or by Elvis, though.

"You said make it look convincing."

"I didn't mean 'swab my tonsils and grope my arse,'" he said, backing out of the parking space.

"When in Rome..." Molly answered, uncapping the mini-bottle of Wild Turkey from her handbag. At least _that_ was something off her bucket list.

"That doesn't even make sense," Sherlock grumbled.

"Well, neither do jeggings." Molly tipped the bottle into her mouth.

*

Sherlock passed the paper coffee cup through her open window before rounding the car to get in the driver's seat again. She pushed his sunglasses (hers, now) up on top of her head so they didn't steam up when she popped the lid of the coffee to blow on it before taking a sip. It was three AM and every drunk tourist and local smackhead seemed to be zombie-ing around in the 7-Eleven just off The Strip.

Sherlock pawed through the carrier bag for... whatever, sucking on a giant Slurpee.

"Ow," he said, squinting, pulling his hand from the bag to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Sphenopalatine ganglioneuralgia," Molly supplied.

"Yes, thank you doctor," he grumped. "You've been drunk since noon, how are you still coherent?"

"It's a gift," she said. "Did you get the clear nail polish?"

"Yes, but you're not using it in the car. Your finger isn't going to get any greener before we get to Reno."

"Actually..."

"Then just take the ring off," he said, ripping open a Snickers with his teeth.

"I can't do that, we're married," she said, wiggling her fingers in front of his face. "Did you get me one of those?"

"Mow," he said around the chocolate bar, biting a piece off before handing it to her. It was big enough to share with a family of four, anyway.

*

"No, no, do not answer that! Molly," he warned. He made a grab for the phone while keeping one hand on the wheel and his eyes on the road.

"Hey John!" Molly held the phone horizontally in front of her, shouting into the microphone. It was really loud with the top down, especially since Sherlock thought speed limits were just a suggestion.

"Molly?" John sounded surprised. "So I, ah, hear congratulations are in order?"

"It's for the case, John," Sherlock bellowed over the wind. He'd let off the gas, at least. "How did you find out? It's not even been twenty-four hours!"

"Your brother told me all about it," John laughed.

"Of course he did," Sherlock muttered.

"So how was the wedding night? Everything you'd ever thought it would be?"

"Didn't sleep a wink and I'll be walking funny for days," Sherlock said dryly.

"Wait, you two didn't actually—" John said after a pause.

Molly disconnected the call with a smirk. It was just after sunrise and she'd run out of bourbon and she wasn't looking forward to sobering up.

"You realize he's never going to let that go now," Sherlock said.

"Well you weren't lying," she said. "And, I mean, I really am sorry about your, ah, wedding tackle."

It really had been his own fault, though; if he hadn't swerved when she was trying to change out of her dress, he wouldn't have ended up with her elbow in his lap. At least he'd had the Slurpee to use as an ice pack.

"Yes, well, I hope you didn't have your heart set on children," he said, shifting in his seat.

"There's always adoption. Or your brother could be the sperm donor for IVF."

Sherlock was so appalled he was left speechless. Molly mentally high-fived herself.

*

"Ugh, I'm soaked," Sherlock said, shedding his sodden suit on the way back to their motel room. "I can't believe you tackled me into the pool."

"I'm sorry. I thought they were shooting at us and I reacted."

"Good instincts, but they were just firecrackers. Though, it _is_ America, so it's always a fifty-fifty between fireworks and gunshots. Where did you learn to do that?"

"My sister plays rugby."

"Ah," he said, letting them back into the room. He dumped his jacket and shirt on one of the beds and started peeling off his trousers. He paused and tossed her his wallet. "Going to need clothes. And for the love of God nothing with a cowboy theme—no cowboy boots, cowboy hats, bolo ties, or western shirts. Get rice and two new phones, too. Use my card, I authorized you this morning."

*

Sherlock stepped out of the motel bathroom; Molly snapped a picture of his epic bitchface and texted it to Mary before he could say a word.

"'If found, please return to Area 51?'" he quoted from his new t-shirt.

"They didn't have a lot to choose from. Be glad it wasn't the one that said 'I've got hoes in the 775 area code.'"

"Cannot sign the divorce papers fast enough," Sherlock muttered, throwing himself on the bed.

*

"'Open and shut,' you said. 'Just like Ocean's Eleven."

" _You_ said Ocean's Eleven. I still have no idea what that even is."

"I did not sign up to literally _dig my own grave_ behind a _whorehouse_ in the fucking desert!"

"It's a brothel, sweetheart, and it's completely legal under Nevada law. Maybe if you were fifteen years younger I'd give you the option of ditching Double-Oh Zero and working for me after some implants and a dye job. Now shut up and dig before your boyfriend—"

"Husband," Sherlock corrected.

"Aww, congratulations," the woman with the Kalashnikov said before pitching forward into the dirt.

"Chī yīgè jībā, bitch!" the tiny Chinese woman in a green lace negligee screeched, brandishing one of the naff gilded plaster Rodin reproductions from inside the brothel.

"Xièxiè," Sherlock said cordially.

"What he said." Molly dropped her shovel and climbed out of the hole to check on the unconscious woman.

*

"I have no idea where we are," Sherlock said, holding his phone above his head and turning in a circle as he searched for a signal.

"I think I do," Molly said as the first Jeep skidded to a stop ten feet away and they were surrounded by heavily-armed soldiers training high-powered spotlights—and oh goodie, laser sights—on them.

"Put your hands where I can see them!" the soldier in charge barked.

*

"You just had to buy _that_ shirt, didn't you," Sherlock muttered, as the Jeep bounced over the packed dirt road.

"You just couldn't keep your mouth shut and pretend we were just tourists, could you?" Molly shot back, scowling at him.

*

"Yes, Mycroft Holmes, code name 'Iceman,'" the soldier in the guard shack said into the phone, eyeing them. "Who'd you say you were again?"

"Sherlock Holmes. Code name 'Yellowbeard.'"

The soldier repeated it into the receiver. "Nope, sorry, no one with that code name has authorization. You sure that's what it is?"

"Yes."

"Couldn't be anything else?"

Sherlock muttered something quietly.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said, 'Virgin.' Try 'Virgin,'" he shouted at the soldier.

The soldier snickered and repeated it into the phone, then rang off. He held his hand out across the desk for Sherlock to shake. "Welcome to Area 51, Mr. Holmes. Mrs. Holmes," he added, nodding in Molly's direction.

*

"I take it all back! This is the best. Honeymoon. Ever!" Molly shouted into the headset, clutching Sherlock's arm as she leaned over him to look out the window of the helicopter. "The truth is out there, I knew it!"

"Mrs. Holmes, I'm going to have to ask you not to say that," the pilot crackled through the headphones.

"Oh, right, sorry! Official secrets!"

"Copyright law, actually," he said.

*

"Wow," Molly said, looking around their new suite in the hotel. "I thought maybe they'd bump us up to a VIP suite or something, but this... Is that an espresso machine? Oh my God, there's a hot tub in the bedroom!"

Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile as he looked out over the lights of The Strip, Molly coming to stand next to him.

"You play your cards right, you're going to need a new code name after tonight," Molly said, running one finger suggestively down his stomach.

"Doesn't it go something like, 'what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?'" Sherlock asked, turning to face her.

"It's only a slogan," Molly said, stepping closer and pushing up on her toes to kiss him.

 


	48. "I thought you said you were a doctor"/ "I should’ve written it down"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by juldooz: #41 ("I thought you said you were a doctor") sherlolly (Tom-verse, if it fits, I just love it so much) Or #28 ( "I should’ve written it down")... some are really vague and some are so specific. I don't know which direction to go... I'll love anything you do 
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge  
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28  
> Yet to be filled: 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73
> 
> And yes, it is Tom-verse. And it is fluffy to a painful degree.

"Why is there—whatever this is—on my breakfast bar?" Molly said, looking at the thing.

"New toy," Sherlock said around a mouthful of cereal from his perch on the sofa. If he lost his grip on the bowl balanced on his knees and milk got all over her rug again she was going to strangle him with his own scarf. "Was for a case but I got to keep it. It's a blow gun."

"Which I'm pretty sure is still illegal and doesn't belong in my flat per our agreement."

"I'm not _keeping_ it here," he said. "I was on my way back from Plaistow and I got hungry. Was going to stop for chips, but I used my cash for the cab and there isn't a cash point for miles."

"There's one the next street over."

Sherlock ignored her. "The Chinese in the fridge has gone off, by the way."

"Bugger, I was going to have that for supper. How much cereal is le—yeah," she said, picking up the box. Almost empty; just crumbs and like five Cocoa Pops rattling around between the bag and the cardboard. It was Sherlock's cereal anyway.

"I left you the best bit," Sherlock's said defensively.

Molly rolled her eyes and went to the lounge, dumping the chocolate sugar-dust into his bowl. "I needed to do a shop anyway," she said.

*

"Is that—"

"Yep."

"Get down, you tit!" Molly hissed, pulling Sherlock behind an idling van across the street from the shop.

"He's on his phone, he won't see us. Look, he's getting a cab," Sherlock said, twisting out of her grasp to grab her hand and pull her into the street. She was beginning to suspect Sherlock _wanted_ Tom to see them.

Ever since the last time they'd run into Tom and there was that thing with the condoms, Sherlock had been a bit cagey. Well, cagier than usual. Standing weirdly closer to her, conspicuously touching her when they were in public. Practising, maybe, figuring out how to imitate the trappings of a relationship. He was always brushing up on his acting, she saw him doing it when he thought she wasn't watching. He'd see someone having a conversation and just get lost watching them, then later on go over it gesture-for-gesture, expression-by-expression. She wondered if real actors did that, or if it was just him. She still wasn't entirely convinced he wasn't actually a space alien sent to Earth to observe and report back to his people.

*

"We're not getting anything frozen, I need to drop by the lab on the way home," she said.

"You were just there and you're going back tomorrow," he pointed out contrarily, frowning at the box of Nobbly Bobblys in his hand.

"They sell them singly in the cold case in the front. Buy one and eat it on the way there," Molly said, taking the box from him and putting it back in the freezer. "If you're good I'll let you bring home a treat from the morgue."

The woman passing them gave Molly a startled look and then high-tailed it out of the aisle when they accidentally made eye contact.

*

"I feel like there's something I'm forgetting. I should’ve written it down," Molly murmured as they stood in the queue, mentally going over her list.

"You'll remember when we get home," Sherlock said absently, doing something with his phone.

Molly was struck with the thought that no one around them would ever assume anything but the fact that they were any other normal couple. Maybe it was a bit of wishful thinking on her part.

*

"You're not staying tonight?"

"I'm taking my blowgun home, per our agreement."

"Oh," Molly said, feeling oddly disappointed.

She followed him to the fridge while he retrieved the plastic baggie of nerves and spinal tissue that she'd let him bring home from the morgue.

"Thank you for these," he said, then bent to kiss her on the cheek, which was a thing he sometimes did now.

Except she moved a bit to her right thinking he was coming in at a different angle and he course-corrected and over-compensated and—yep. His lips were definitely on hers. It was a kiss. A for-real, this-is-not-a-drill, no-seriously-it's-actually-happening-no-one-panic _kiss_.

She was kissing back before she even realized she was doing it, reflex more than anything, until suddenly it wasn't a reflex and she was backing him against the door of the fridge and tugging at his scarf and his arms were looping around her, pulling her closer.

*

"I thought you said you were a doctor," Sherlock rumbled into her neck. "You know what can happen."

"I _am_ a doctor, you know that, and conceiving after _one time_ is so highly unlikely—oh God, do that again," Molly said, scratching her nails lightly over his back. "Do you want to stop just to go and buy condoms right now?"

"Well, when you put it that way..."

*

"Wow," Sherlock said, staring at the ceiling.

"Yeah," Molly replied faintly.

"I think I let the nerves sitting out on the worktop."

"It's alright, I'll get you more tomorrow."

"Mm. I'm kind of hungry now." He still sounded disorientated. She hoped she hadn't broken him.

"Me too. Wish I would have let you get that ice cream."

"I don't. Butterfly effect."

She turned her head and looked at him across the pillow.

"If we'd got the ice cream, we wouldn't have gone to the hospital. No nerves in the fridge, no retrieving said nerves before leaving and no thank-you kiss, so none of—" he gestured between them "—this."

"I know there's got to be a joke in there about you finally finding your nerve, but I really just can't right now."

"Had I known this is what it took to stop your awful jokes... etcetera," Sherlock said flatly; he looked over at her and they both burst into laughter.

"I can't believe we just did that," Molly wheezed when she finally got her giggles under control.

They'd ended up on their sides curled into each other; she tipped her face up to look at Sherlock.

"It is a bit mad," he said, smiling. "Long time coming, though."

"Well..." Molly squinted one eye.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. "Are you insinuating I'm lacking stamina?"

"What? Me? No!" she said, biting down on her smile and looking away innocently.

Sherlock rolled her onto her back. "Only one thing for that appalling sense of humour now," he said, cutting off her own comeback with his mouth on hers.

The whole thing was kind of weird and kind of awkward, but it was utterly perfect, Molly thought, wrapping her arms around Sherlock's shoulders.

 


	49. Sherlock's Actually An Alien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr ask that I answered in the form of a ficlet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was the original ask: Should Sherlock really is an alien reporter send to the Earth, how Molly would react? Is it safe at all to sleep with could-be-alien in the same bed, even if not sleep-sleeping?
> 
> This is actually an AU of my Tom-verse AU, stemming from the line in the last chapter about Sherlock being an alien.

“So you’re actually…?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not just joking around?”

“Nope.”

“But we—”

“We—?”

“Had sex.  Doesn’t that violate some kind of prime directive or intergalactic law about interspecies… relations or something?  Oh God, you weren’t trying to _probe_ me, were you?”

Sherlock made a frustrated noise.  "We don’t actually _do_ that. Well, not any more.  It used to be a thing, like… an initiation ritual.  Or a school prank.  That sort of thing.   _That’s_ been banned.  Consensual interspecies relations are completely fine, though.  Encouraged, even, though I never saw much relevance to collecting that data myself.“

“Oh, cheers, then,” Molly said, annoyed.  It was bad enough she just found out she’d shagged an actual alien, but then for him to basically call it irrelevant…

“Until I met you, obviously.  And now we’ve got to the point where I can’t really keep it a secret from you any longer, what with—” he gestured vaguely in her direction.

“What with what?”

“The baby.”

“The what?”

“Our child, which you’re now carrying.”

“Sherlock, we had sex less than a week ago, I’m not pregnant, that’s not how humans work.”

“You felt a strange cramping sensation yesterday morning and your body temperature’s been elevated since.  Your breasts are also more sensitive than usual today.  No nausea yet, but don’t be surprised if it starts in a day or two.”

“It’s PMT, they always feel like this before I get my period.  I mean, it’s a little early, but perimenopause is a thing and every month is a new uterine adventure these days.”

“And every day is about to become a new uterine adventure, since you are, in fact, carrying a half-alien baby and will be for the next nine to twelve months.  Not many hybrids between my species and yours, hard to really pin down an exact timeframe.”

“Are you high?  I mean it.  Seriously, are you on something right now?”

“No, I’ve concluded that phase of the human experiment.”

“Uh huh.”

“Ask Mycroft, he’ll confirm everything.”

“Because he’s an alien too.”

“No, he’s just a textbook example of a maladjusted human.  He’s my contact in the British Government.  They know about me and my exile—er, assignment,” he looked quickly away.

“So what about your parents?”

“Mycroft’s parents.  They rather like me, though.”

“And Moriarty?”

“Was another alien, yes, but not from my planet.”

“So I’ve slept with two aliens?  Tom wasn't—”

“ _No_ , and we’ll never speak of him again.  You really slept with Moriarty?”

“Once. It was our third date.”

“You only went out with him three times.”

“And why do you think that was?”

His face folded into some complicated origami of confusion.

Molly shook her head.  She wasn’t explaining it.

_Alien_. Sherlock Holmes was an _alien_.  It all made sense.

And, oh yeah, maybe she actually was pregnant with his half-alien baby.

“Can we visit your home planet?” she asked, because where the hell does one even begin with that?

“Uh, no.”  He widened his eyes and pursed his lips.  "Let’s just say my ticket here was one-way.“

“Do you have two hearts?”

“Most people think I don’t even have one.”

Molly made a face.  People were idiots anyway.

“You’ve examined me,” he said.  "The biology is pretty much bog standard, though organ placement is a little… fluid, but everything functions more or less the same.  You can take all the samples you like.  You just can’t show them to anyone.“

"I… think I need to sit down,” Molly said.  

“Why, are you feeling ill?  We’ll need to keep detailed records of everything,” Sherlock said, guiding her down to the sofa and then hovering.

“It’s just a lot to take in.  Does John know?”

“Nope, though I don’t think it would surprise him.  Still, I’d rather keep this between us for now.”

“What am I supposed to tell my Mum?”

“That you’ve met a very nice and completely human man and decided to do the things people do and live in a flat and have babies.  We can get a dog, too.  I’d like a dog.”

“This is mad.”

“So is everything your people do, but they do it anyway.  Speaking of doing it anyway, I know we’ve already fulfilled the primary objective of sex, but I was wondering if we could do it some more.  I’d like a larger sample size before I report back on the experience.”

“You are not reporting anything to anyone about our sex life.”

Sherlock looked genuinely torn.

“Fine,” he said finally.  "But I at least get to try the probe thing, then.“

"Nooooo,” Molly said.

Sherlock slumped.

“Maybe for something special.  No promises,” Molly said.  She always gave in on everything.

Sherlock smirked.  "No time like the present to start that data collection, then.“


	50. "Bed. Now."/ "Road Trip!"/ "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by geekmama: Prompts Round 3, pleeeease? Any or all: #69 "Bed. Now."; #90 "Road Trip!"; #95 "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas". 
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95  
> Yet to be filled: 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73, 54, 89, 32, 71
> 
> Set in the same Vegas-married 'verse as Chapter 47

"Get your keys," Sherlock said as he threw back the blankets on the bed.

"Hn?" Molly grunted, groping for the lamp.

"Clothing, keys," Sherlock said, already on the other side of the room and pulling open drawers.

"What? Why? Is this is it? Is it zombies?"

"Road trip!" he said brightly.

"Wh—" she was cut off by a wadded-up something smacking her in the face.

*

"This isn't legal, is it?"

"Pfft, legal," Sherlock said, binoculars trained out the passenger window.

"Just tell me we're not going to be kidnapping anyone."

"We're not going to be kidnapping anyone."

"Are you fibbing?"

"You wound me, Molly. Oh, there he is. Keep the engine running," Sherlock said before darting out of the car and into the night.

*

"Should have known there was some monkey business going on when you brought a car seat," Molly said, looking in the rear view mirror at their new passenger.

"Really, that was the best you could do?"

"I had two hours of sleep and I'm about to get on Le Shuttle to France. With a shaved chimp in my backseat."

"Bonobo. And he's not shaved, it's from whatever they've been injecting him with. You're an animal lover, you should be thrilled with this."

"Just because I give to the RSPCA and have a cat calender on my desk doesn't mean I'm ready to join the A.L.F."

"He's actually been granted citizenship in Belgium. We're repatriating him for my client," Sherlock said, twisting to reach over the seat and do something with the chimp. Bonobo. Whatever.

"Are you getting paid in bananas?"

"No, pounds sterling, and I was going to split the fee with you and help you smuggle however much booze and chocolate from the duty-free we could manage until you made that crack. We need to get him dressed before they check our passports," Sherlock said, unclipping the harness of the child seat.

"Does he at least have a name?"

"Quentin."

Quentin shrieked at his name.

Molly wondered what life was like for normal people. Relaxing, probably.

*

The border officer looked at Molly, then Sherlock, then Quentin (now dressed in jeans and a jumper and a rain hat pulled low over his face). Sherlock scowled and shifted the bonobo in his arms.

"Is it cancer?" the woman asked, sympathy pouring off of her.

"Congenital," Molly answered. "Beddoe-Clyde syndrome. Very rare. Incurable. Runs on my husband's side."

"Oh," the officer said, hushed. "Well, you have yourself a lovely time in France then, Mrs. Holmes, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh, it's not—"

Sherlock snatched their passports. "Come along, dear, you know what happens when baby doesn't get his snack," he said, plastering on his fake smile.

"Did she even read the passports? I mean, one's obviously a fake—" Molly started once they were away from the desk.

"Shh!"

"And she didn't even get my name right. I'll take mine back now, by the way."

"It's fine, I'll hang onto it until we get to the Belgian border. Travelling as a family, may as well keep them all together," Sherlock said too quickly.

"Give. It."

"Promise you won't be cross."

"What did you do?"

"I... may have misplaced the divorce papers."

"Misplaced."

"Misplaced, burned, who remembers?"

"Sherlock, give me my passport," Molly said calmly.

He handed her the passport after another moment's hesitation.

It wasn't her passport. At least, not the one she'd had for the last four years. It was brand new.

Molly L. Holmes, it read.

"Your brother, I assume?"

Sherlock bounced Quentin into a more comfortable position and walked away quickly toward the men's room in the terminal. The bloody coward.

*

"Are you supposed to be feeding him sweets? Shouldn't he have like, fruit or leaves or something?" Molly asked, leaning against the front fender of the car.

Sherlock handed Quentin (who was sat on the bonnet) another Malteser and put one between his own lips, making the same kissy face the bonobo made.

"It's fine," Sherlock said, shaking some from the packet into her outstretched hand.

"Can he do any tricks? Like, if you point your finger at him and say 'bang,' will he fall over?"

"He's got a three hundred-plus sign vocabulary and paints portraits as well as keeps perfect 6/8 time on a drum. He doesn't do 'tricks.'"

Quentin reached over and put his hands on Molly's breasts, then signed something.

"Well, maybe he does one trick."

"Grabbing my tits hardly counts as a trick," she said flatly.

"He said you're a B-cup."

"You're making that up."

"Am I?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows and blanked his face. Molly tongued the inside of her cheek. The staring contest was only broken when she closed her eyes because Quentin had decided he needed to re-measure.

*

"I think we're being followed."

"Don't be ridiculous, we're not being followed. It's first thing on a Saturday morning, do you know how many tourists are—oh. Right, no, that's not good. Change lanes. Now."

*

"Just a slight detour, Molly," she said, doing her best I-am-a-posh-git baritone. "We'll still be in Brussels by noon."

Sherlock ripped off a piece of duct tape with his teeth and put it over one of the bullet holes in the boot. At least they hadn't shot out the back window or hit the gas tank, though both her tail lights were broken.

"Well, we'll make it before sundown at least. Think of it as a second honeymoon, touring the French countryside."

"We just got back from the first two months ago."

"What can I say, I'm a romantic."

Quentin blew a raspberry on Molly's cheek. "I'm surrounded by them, apparently."

*

Molly woke with a start; Quentin was out of his seat and had his hand on her boob again. It was dark outside.

"Sherlock," she said slowly, removing the bonobo's hand from her chest, "why are we in Germany?"

"I'm not allowed in Luxembourg. Long story."

*

"I am way too sober for this," Molly said as she watched Sherlock being handcuffed. "Quentin, so help me Christ if you do what I know you're thinking of doing I will phone Proctor and Gamble myself and you'll spend the rest of your very short life looking like a losing contestant in RuPaul's Drag Race."

"Molly! Is that any way to talk to our only child?" Sherlock bellowed before he was stuffed into the back of the police car.

*

"Mycroft? This is your sister-in-law. Yes, I know what time it is. We need a favour. No, he can't come to the phone because he's currently working his way up to another international incident. We're in a police station in Fuck-If-I-Know-Where Germany and... yeah, no, just, um, bail, or diplomatic immunity, or whatever it is you do if you could... I need to go to work Monday and we still need to get to Antwerp. Fine, yes, I'll owe you, you can have our firstborn, whatever Rumpelstiltskin. Fine. Thank you."

*

"Why is Quentin wearing lederhosen? We're not even in the right part of Germany for that."

"Fun fact: bonobos really like beer. Or at least, this one does. Even funner fact: I've finally met someone who's more of a lightweight than you are. Luckily, Frauline Mueller over there found these in the lost property box. Oh, and we have to name our first baby Mycroft."

Sherlock opened his mouth, but obviously couldn't decide if he wanted to correct her grammar first or refute the possibility of ever naming his offspring after his brother.

*

"Chips for breakfast. Healthy."

"Yes, I suppose potatoes are healthier in their distilled form, if the way you prefer to consume them is anything to go by," Sherlock sniffed before shoving a handful of still-hot chips in his mouth. "And they're _frites_ , not chips," he added after chewing and swallowing.

*

"This is not my Quentin. What are you trying to pull, Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock's client said angrily.

"What's he talking about? Sherlock?" Molly looked between Sherlock, the client, and (not-)Quentin.

"Wh—no, this was the only bonobo in the facility."

"That cannot be!"

"Mr. Orville, I can assure you—"

"Out! Take this imposter and get out!"

*

"We're not keeping him."

"He's toilet trained."

"So he's going to live at Baker Street, then?"

"Don't be silly, I can't keep an animal, Mrs. Hudson has limits."

"So you think he's going to live in my flat?"

"You had that cat once, hardly any different."

"Start calling zoos."

"You are not the woman I married."

*

"Don't worry, Quentin, we'll visit, we promise. Isn't that right, Molly?"

Molly smiled tightly at the bonobo, letting him have one goodbye grope.

*

"A single occupancy. Wonderful. You know what? I don't even care. Bed. Now," Molly said. They were lucky to even get a space on the overnight ferry from Hook of Holland to Harwick; she wasn't about to drive back to London after only sleeping _maybe_ five hours the entire weekend. At least they didn't have to take the ferry to Hull.

She peeled off her her shirt (which smelled vaguely of primate and beer) and wiggled out of her trousers, then figured to hell with it and flicked off her bra, too. They were married, after all. Not that they'd consummated it or anything; they hadn't even so much as kissed after that aborted fumble in the hotel room in Las Vegas. Probably would have shaken out a lot differently if his testicles hadn't been so badly bruised.

She crawled into the berth and plastered herself against the wall to give Sherlock enough room to lie down; he shed his suit and joined her. There was a bit of shuffling until they got their arms and legs and the blankets arranged, and then a new kind of awkward tension took over.

"Did you really burn the divorce papers?" Molly blurted.

"Not intentionally. Science accident."

"Uh huh."

Sherlock sighed. "If you really want a divorce, we'll just get another set of papers from the solicitor. And you can keep them so they don't get unintentionally destroyed."

"Don't you? Want one. It was just for the case, right? What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."

"You said it yourself, it's just a slogan," Sherlock hedged.

"Yeah, but you haven't, uh, shown any interest since we got back, so I thought it was just a passing thing. Caught up in the moment."

"You didn't show much interest yourself," he countered.

"So if I were to show interest now, what would you do?" she asked, twisting the curl at the nape of his neck around her index finger. His fingers twitched against her shoulder and he shivered.

He tilted his face down towards hers. "Probably kiss you and then ask for a rain check on anything else, considering the amount of sleep we've both had in the last three days," he said frankly.

"It's a start," Molly said, giving him a half-smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW WITH FANART <3: https://unefleurmorte.tumblr.com/post/163218432431/ficlet-cemetary-chapter-50-bed-now-road


	51. "I’m not the jealous type, I swear"/ "Nobody needs fake friends"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by everchanging101: Hi! From the new list 46 (I’m not the jealous type, I swear) and 100 (Nobody needs fake friends). Thank you!
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100  
> Yet to be filled: 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73, 54, 89, 32, 71
> 
> Another Tom-verse, heavy on the fluff and not very funny.

"So I couldn't get any really thick callouses, but I did get some heel skin, which is comparable in tex—oh, sorry, I didn't know you had a client!" Molly said, backing out the door.

"Not a client," Sherlock said loudly enough for her to hear on the landing while she let herself in through the kitchen. "Old friend."

Molly shoved the bag in the biohazard section of the fridge and unlooped her scarf as she went into the lounge to at least say hello to this friend before she disappeared back into the bathroom. 2.0 had been tap-dancing on her bladder the entire way from work to Baker Street.

"Oh," she said, unable to hide her reaction.

It was Sherlock's ex. The Bridesmaid with curves like a road through the Alps, not Belle de Jour. Thank God.

"Hi!" She smiled and waved, looking like she'd just stepped off this month's cover of _Confident, Successful Women Every Man Alive Ever Would Want To Shag And Then Marry_. Molly felt frumpy, swollen, and very tired.

"Molly, Janine, Janine, Molly," Sherlock introduced. He didn't look particularly uncomfortable, though maybe a bit impatient.

"I remember. From the papers," Molly said. She realized how snippy she sounded as it came out. "And we um, met at Mary and John's wedding that time."

"Oh, right, your ah, date had the—" she mimed overhanded stabbing "—meat knife theory."

Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard his eyelids fluttered; for some reason he still took Tom's good-natured idiocy as a personal affront.

Molly took off her coat and laid it over the back of John's chair. Janine's eyes went wide. "Oh God, you aren't still with him, are you?" she blurted, eyeing Molly's third-trimester belly.

"Oh no, no—"

"It's mine—" Sherlock and Molly answered at the same time.

Janine was speechless for a moment, then laughed. "Congratulations, then. Who knew ya had it in ya, Sherl?"

"Well, _I_ actually put it in _her_ , that's how these things happen," Sherlock muttered, annoyed, raising his eyebrows and looking away before giving Janine a tight smile. "Thank you," he said.

"So, ah, what brings you here, anyway?" Molly asked, one hand absently dropping to her belly and the other pressing on her lower back as 2.0 decided to do a somersault.

"Back in town for a business meeting and thought I'd get a bit of a top-up on my revenge for Sherl bein' such a bastard," Janine said brightly.

"Because making piles of money by dragging me through the tabloids wasn't enough, apparently."

Molly caught herself making a face as Janine looked at her; she blurted, "I’m not the jealous type, I swear! It's, ah, it's all in the past, anyway," she tittered.

It was a lie; she still thought about how good Sherlock had looked with Janine and how Molly herself should have been the one joined at the hip with him that day and how much fun they could have had and it wouldn't have been a sad, miserable experience for either of them. She tried not to think about those what-ifs, though. And she really tried not to think about all the lies that had been in the papers and what people thought they knew about him. She was in a good place with Sherlock, together in a proper, affectionate, committed relationship (well, sort-of) and two months away from parenthood.

Janine laughed it off; mirth—either genuine or at least convincing—seemed to be her default. "Guess I won't be writin' that book, then," she joked.

"The Unauthorized Biography of Sherlock Holmes, sure that would be a scintillating read," Sherlock muttered.

"'S funny, though, ya really find out who your real friends are after ya have your fifteen minutes," Janine said, tilting her head and widening her eyes a bit, making that kind of face women everywhere made when something actually really hurt and it wasn't something to be denied or made light of, but it was the expected thing to do anyway.

Molly felt a pang of sympathy despite herself. "Nobody needs fake friends, anyway," she said, bizarrely feeling the need to show some kind of solidarity with the other woman (who was, in her mind, still kind of The Other Woman; nothing was ever simple). Molly lost almost all her friends to her breakup with Tom, even if there wasn't really any animosity or anything after the initial split. Being alone sucked.

After the lull went on for just a bit too long, Molly excused herself to the loo; she took a bit longer than was necessary just to do a little bit of tidying in case Janine had to use the toilet before she left. Not that she had to impress her or anything, it wasn't even her flat and therefore didn't reflect on her as a woman at all. Except it did, it always did, and it was just silly.

*

"You could have texted me," Molly said after she heard the front door close.

"I didn't have time. You were probably walking out of the station when Mrs. Hudson let her in."

She levelled him with a Look.

"Fine, yes, I'm sorry, I should have warned you—for all the good it would have done—and should anything similar happen again I will do so," he said, sounding just as annoyed as she felt.

She really didn't want to start a row. It wasn't really his fault (well, not Janine's visit, everything else was still complicated, though). She could either let it bother her the rest of the night or she could start the process of unwinding after a long day made unexpectedly longer; she chose the only option she had the energy for.

He must have seen her posture shift and he walked over to her from where he'd been hovering near the door of the lounge. He bent down and kissed her hello and laid a hand on her belly, a thing they'd been doing for months now but still hadn't got old.

*

"You were lying earlier," Sherlock murmured after they'd settled into bed.

They'd decided it wasn't worth the trip back to her flat just to sleep and she had clothes and things there; there probably wouldn't be many more nights like this after the baby came. They hadn't discussed it, but it was fairly obvious they'd be living out of her flat, since that was far and away where they spent the most time anyway.

"Oh? What was I lying about?"

"You _are_ the jealous type."

"Takes one to know one," she said archly, craning her neck to look over her shoulder at him.

"I am _not_. Who would I have to be jealous of?" he asked breezily.

They flirted more now than they ever had before she'd got pregnant. If they were any other couple and she had to witness it, she'd die gagging, but it made her happy, so she made an exception.

"You were so jealous of Tom you got me pregnant through sheer force of will."

"I believe you'll find I got you pregnant through sheer _lack_ of will. And premature ejaculation."

Molly laughed; it was true enough, but she never had cause to complain about his performance.

"I overwhelmed you with my charms," she said dryly.

"You did," he said, dropping a kiss to her shoulder. "I believe I'm finding myself a bit overwhelmed right this moment."

Molly turned onto her back with some effort, smiling and pulling Sherlock closer. Sometimes a little jealousy was a good thing, she thought as he kissed her. The results spoke for themselves.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW WITH FANART <3: https://unefleurmorte.tumblr.com/post/163248689723/ficlet-cemetery-chapter-51-im-not-the


	52. "Remember that really embarrassing memory you told me to never speak of again?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by saffysmom: Hello! Can I please request 104 ("Remember that really embarrassing memory you told me to never speak of again?") from round three? Thank you

"Did you get one of these?" Molly asked, holding up the invitation.

"No, as you can clearly see on the envelope it's addressed to the both of us. Apparently they think I live here now."

"Yeah, how would anyone get that idea?" Molly asked, glancing at the dressing gown thrown over her chair, the lists and crime scene photos stuck to her fridge, the four pairs of size-Yeti shoes by her door and Sherlock himself (in a t-shirt so ratty it must have followed him from university) leaned against her breakfast bar while he drank orange juice straight from the carton.

Granted his family—Cousin Kath in this case, oh lovely—didn't know about all that, but still. Well, Mycroft did, but he hardly counted.

"It's a christening. She was definitely not pregnant the last time we saw her. Or seeing anyone," Molly said, thinking back to three months ago, when there'd been that anniversary party. Disturbing, that she not only knew names, but also remembered _things_ about each of them, now.

"Oh how joyous, celebrating the unwitting indoctrination of a helpless infant into shared delusion. And of course she wasn't pregnant, she probably expelled her own uterus in one of her more violent bulimic episodes whilst trying to get a Vogue cover back in the 90s."

"She was a model? You know, I kind of thought she looked familiar, but I assumed it was just the family resemblance."

"Frankly, that's insulting. And she _thought_ she was a model, but mostly she just went to parties and slept with photographers. I'm sure she flew to the flavour-of-the-month in the third world and brought the baby back on her broomstick."

"You really love alliteration, don't you?"

"Conversations would be much more interesting if they all rolled trippingly off the tongue."

"So are we going in with a plan this time, or are you going to wing it?"

"I never wing it."

She looked at him.

"Why, did you have something in mind?" he asked.

*

"Acting normal. That's your plan," Sherlock deadpanned into the mirror, tying his tie like he was on the gallows being forced to tie his own noose.

"Think about how unsettled they'll be. They'll spend the whole time waiting and wondering and the longer it goes on, the sense of impending doom will just keep getting bigger. Then we'll just leave and they'll wonder what the hell happened."

"Remember that really embarrassing memory you told me to never speak of again?"

"Going to have to be more specific on that one," Molly said, edging him out of the way so she could check her dress. The pattern of the fabric mostly hid the lines of her pants, but she wondered if she should go with a different pair instead. Or go the Kate Middleton route and go without entirely.

"The thing at the anniversary party, against the door."

"Oh."

"I would do that again right now because you're an evil, brilliant woman."

She tried not to look startled; Sherlock hadn't ever said anything like that before or even alluded to actually having actual sex. Which she wouldn't be opposed to, per se, but it still caught her off guard.

"So you'd whine your way through all forty-five seconds of a blowjob while one of your aunts bangs on the door yelling about her diverticulitis."

"That's not what happened!" Sherlock said, making a face like a sad Ludo minus the horns.

"That's exactly what happened and that's why we never speak of it."

"I take it back, then, you're not evil, you're just mean," he sniffed, pulling the knot on his tie tight.

"Still brilliant, though."

He shrugged one shoulder and pursed his lips while rolling his eyes, _yes,_ _ **fine**_.

*

"Maybe don't smile," Molly said as they walked up the flagstone path of the church.

"You said act normal. Normal people smile."

"Yeah, but you look like you're about to steal all the presents in Whoville when you smile, so just... don't."

Sherlock let his face go slack.

"Try not to look like you've just had a root canal, either."

He rolled his eyes.

"Or your brother."

"I came out to have a good time and I'm honestly feeling so attacked right now."

*

"Well, you didn't burst into flames when you walked through the doors, so I think we're ahead so far," Molly said, shuffling into a pew near the middle of the small chapel.

Mycroft dropped down from the ceiling like a spider to land next to her on the pew. Really, he just pushed past a grimacing ( _was_ he grimacing or was it just the dentures? there wasn't one single Holmes with a face that made any kind of logical sense) Uncle Somebody to take a seat next to her, probably thinking he'd use her as a human shield if Sherlock decided on a dynamite vest for the occasion.

"So what do we have to look forward to today, brother dear? Whoopie cushions on the pews? Tripwires in the aisle? Red dye in the font water?"

"Bugger, wish I'd thought of that," Sherlock muttered to her before leaning around her to address Mycroft. Molly patted him on the knee in a 'there, there, dear' gesture. "I'm not doing anything. I'm going to sit through the dull little ceremony quiet as a churchmouse, make bland, lukewarm conversation over our equally bland, lukewarm meal, and then we're going to make a very normal exit with handshakes and cheek kisses all around at the socially appropriate time."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, then looked to Molly. "And you're just going to go along with this."

"It was her idea," Sherlock said, smiling as he put his arm around her and pulled her closer.

"Mm, yes, quite," Mycroft said, appraising. "And she's still sober. Neither of you will last an hour."

"Was that just you proposing a wager, big brother?" Sherlock asked cheerily.

 _This is going to end bloody and sad_ , Molly thought.

"The stakes?"

"Oh, one of your 'favours' I should expect, _legwork_ , anywhere in the world this time. South Pacific, South America, South Pole, wherever. Even the moon. You won't be winning anyway."

"And if, by some miracle, _you_ win?"

"No more CCTV surveillance and you stop tracking my phone."

"And his weight in Belgian Chocolate," Molly added. It was a longshot, but her Gran always told her to dream big.

Mycroft and Sherlock gave her twin looks of "really?"

Molly shrugged.

*

Everyone was on the edge of their seat as the vicar took the baby and held her over the font; not because anything about the very ordinary, textbook-standard ceremony was that engaging, but because he looked to be a centenarian at the youngest and had hand tremors so pronounced they could stick him in the corner of a hardware store to replace the paint shaker.

Sherlock leaned into Molly. "That baby is going in the water," he said.

"Shh," she said, turning her head. His face was right there next to hers and there was a weird little moment before they both turned back just in time to see the vicar drop the baby into the font.

There was a collective gasp from the entire extended Holmes family. She looked to Sherlock; he had his lips pressed so tightly together the area around his mouth was white while the rest of his face flushed with the effort to hold in what would undoubtedly be a bray of laughter.

She looked at her watch. Fifty-six minutes to go.

*

"Oh my God, it's a macaron croquembouche," Molly said when they walked into the reception hall.

"Technically I think it's just a macaron tower, croquembouche is specifically choux pastry and spun sugar."

"I don't care what it is, I'm going to eat at least a third of that."

"No, you're going to eat four at the most, and take lady bites instead of unhinging your jaw and swallowing things whole like a snake eating an egg. We have a bet to win," Sherlock said, his hand on her lower back as he guided her to her chair. Which he then pulled out for her. And then pushed in when she sat down.

It was her plan, but it was still unsettling. Sherlock, being Mr. Grace and Charm. She shivered with the chill that ran down her spine.

"Are you cold? I told you you should've dressed warmer," Sherlock said, taking her hands in his to warm them.

Beyond bizarre.

*

She looked longingly at Mycroft's plate, piled high with macarons and handmade marshmallows and chocolate truffles.

"I say, they're setting up the build-your-own sundae station. Have you ever had a fresh waffle cone straight from the iron, Ms. Hooper? Simply amazing," Mycroft smiled, his lips coated in powdered sugar.

Molly scowled at him and worked a grape off her fruit skewer. If she ate her way through it fast enough, she could use it to poke out his eye. "You better eat a lot, I want you one stone heavier for the weigh-in," she said to Sherlock, who was nodding along to something Cousin Will was bleating about tariffs and Scientology and why Britain needed a space program. She didn't feel sorry for him at all.

"Don't count your chocolate eggs before they hatch, dearest," he said through gritted teeth. "I may yet commit a very brutal act of murder before the hour is up."

"Good, do it before all the desserts are gone and they stop serving champagne."

*

"Three minutes, you can do this. Eyes on the prize," Molly said in her tough-as-nails coach voice, her forehead leaned against Sherlock's and her hand grasping the back of his neck.

"Right, yes. Yes. Three minutes," Sherlock said before straightening and tugging his jacket to resettle it. He plastered on a smile as Cousin Kath glided to their table with the baby.

*

"—And I named her Estonia because I wanted her to be connected to her heritage as she grows up. I love the former Soviet countries, you just pull out a stack of Euros and you can get anything."

"Actually Estonia has one of the fastest growing econ—" Sherlock began, until Molly cut him off with a fork to the thigh. This one wasn't plastic.

"Thirty seconds," she said under her breath. "Oh, she's simply darling! And heritage is so important," she gushed.

Molly thought Kath narrowed her eyes just the slightest bit. Hard to tell with the combination of Botox and Holmes DNA, though. "Yes, and your people are... Irish? You are rather... plucky."

"She is, isn't she? I do so love a spirited woman," Sherlock said, snaking an arm around her shoulders and clamping his fingers over her upper arm, effectively trapping her in her seat. "Oh, look at the time, dear, we really should be going, lots of normal people things to do yet today like washing the car and pruning the rose bushes and walking... dogs... I don't really care. Molly, get your coat."

*

"Don't run, we can't run or it counts as losing!"

"Race-walk, then, stumpy!"

"I would show you just how plucky I can be if I wasn't this close to 175 pounds of Belgian chocolate right now," Molly said as Sherlock dragged her along.

"I'm sure you will after you get a fifth of whiskey into you. And it's 173, I weighed myself this morning."

"So your vanity is worth more than two extra pounds of chocolate?"

"I'm not _vain_."

She let that one go; they were still in earshot of the reception.

*

"Why do you have so many flowers?" Sherlock asked when he walked in. "And why is there so much fruit on your breakfast bar?"

"So, funny story, apparently everyone in your family thinks you're dying." She held up a stack of Get Well Soon cards all addressed to Sherlock.

"Why?"

"The normal thing worked. Two of your cousins sent business cards for neurologists and Aunt Wilfred sent a printout of an article about early-onset dementia research that she found 'on the Google.'"

"What's in the crate?"

"The chocolate, I think. I was waiting until you got home to open it, just in case it was actually a bomb or a cursed mummy or something."

"I am feeling a bit peckish, actually. Hammer."

She handed him the hammer sitting on the worktop and watched as Sherlock inspected the crate before prying off the front panel, which caused the other three sides to fall away dramatically. Good thing it was in a clear spot of the lounge.

"Wow," she said.

Sherlock was actually speechless as he stared at the life-size Belgian chocolate version of himself. Then, "Why am I wearing a bow tie? I never wear bow ties."

"Bow ties are cool," Molly said, coming closer to peer at the truly uncanny likeness of Sherlock. "Really seems like a shame to eat it, it's so pretty."

"You think I'm pretty?"

"Just admiring the workmanship," Molly said, putting on an innocent face.

Sherlock looked at her like he couldn't decide if she was joking, then leaned into himself and bit off a section of his own ear.

"Should have known you were one of those kids," she said, hoping he didn't damage the face any more. She wanted a selfie. And maybe she'd snog it a bit, because who wouldn't? Even if it was kind of weird. Oh God, Sherlock was looking at her again. She really hoped she hadn't said any of that out loud.

"I could hardly start feet first, now could I? Besides, only savages eat an Easter Bunny like that. Ears taste the best."

He had a point. Molly shrugged and stepped in closer to the chocolate statue, pushing up on her toes and using her fingertips on its chest to balance as she bit off her own piece of ear.

Sherlock made a strangled little noise behind her.

"I really don't know if I want to make a joke about cannibalism or being a man-eater first," she said after taking the hunk of chocolate out of her mouth. She turned to face him. He was giving her the oddest look.

"You feeling alright? You look a bit pale. It's not actually poison chocolate, is it?"

He paused for a second as though he were thinking, his mouth part-way open. "No. Not poison," he said simply.

"Here, have some more ear, it'll make you feel better," she said, holding out her chunk of earlobe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (yeah, it was a real thing: http://www.bbc.co.uk/newsbeat/article/32158043/chocolate-model-made-of-benedict-cumberbatch-for-easter)


	53. "Will you marry me?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this request twice, back-to-back. In the still-untitled Holmes-family-function 'verse.
> 
> Requested by rooneykmara: 81 for the third list:) Thank you!  
> Requested my mychakk: Prompt 81, please :) (looking forward to your take on this one :) would love to see this in the universe with Molly being Sherlock's regular/only? date to his family functions ;) not necessary though) thank you in advance! :) 
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81  
> Yet to be filled: 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73, 54, 89, 32, 71

"Your great-aunt Eudora died," Molly said, glancing over to Sherlock before going back to her slides.

"Oh good, when's the funeral?"

"Day after tomorrow, reading of the will to follow. I didn't know that was an actual thing people actually did. Like, do you lot just gather in mahogany-panelled libraries with your embroidered hankies and veils and mesh gloves and just faint dramatically when the surprise illegitimate child walks in?"

"I know they say television is a window to the world, but sometimes it would do you some good to actually go outside," Sherlock said, shouldering her aside to see what she was looking at. "Ooh, is that brain?"

"Colon polyp, actually, though in this bloke I don't think there was much difference. Real Darwin Award material, thought a curling iron was a vibrator with a warming feature."

"And that killed him?"

"He tried to cool it off by running it under the tap. While it was still plugged in."

"Which end?" Sherlock continued to look at the slide.

"Both."

"Hn." He finally moved away from the microscope. "So, fancy a trip to the Peak District?"

"Wait, you're actually going?"

"Of course I'm going, I want to see what she left me."

"You're not going to make a scene or anything? I mean, it _is_ a funeral."

"You think so little of me. That hurts," Sherlock said too earnestly. He touched his chest. "Right here, in my heart."

"That's not your heart, you've got a raisin stuck to your shirt."

"Wondered where that went. Had a snack in the cab." He picked the raisin off his shirt and popped it in his mouth, then made a face. "That was not a raisin."

 _I don't even want to know_ , she thought.

*

"Just awful. Taken too soon," Cousin Sybil said, shaking her head sadly and staring into her wineglass.

"Wait, they're serving wine? In a church?"

"Oh no, I brought my own. If you thought the weddings were bad, the funerals will make you wonder how you ever ended up in this family in the first place."

"Not really in the family, but okay."

Cousin Sybil just looked at her, 'you poor, deluded fool' written across her face. Sherlock picked that moment to reappear; he'd been cornered by his parents, back from the Caribbean just in time. Their globe-trotting always seemed to coincide with family functions, but apparently the funeral was enough of a surprise that they couldn't beg off.

"They'll be seating soon, come on. Need a spot in the front row," he said before steering her toward the chapel doors.

*

"Would anyone like to say a few words?" the vicar said after concluding his sermon.

Sherlock shot up from the pew and dashed to the lectern. He pulled cards from his jacket pocket, fumbling them a bit as he took a steadying breath.

 _He truly missed his calling_ , she thought. Though, she'd never have met him if he'd ended up an actor, so there was that.

He started his eulogy and teared up convincingly as he reminisced about her fresh-baked scones and the dish of allsorts she kept by her chair in the study.

Molly leaned into Mycroft. "Really sounds like he was fond of her, that they had a good relationship," she remarked quietly.

"Oh no, the old bat hated him. She hated everyone, but especially him," he said.

Mummy Holmes leaned around Mycroft. "She really was a dreadful woman."

"...And so I've come to understand the fleeting fragility of our time on this Earth, and I realized we've not a moment to be wasted," Sherlock said, choking on his fake tears. "I probably don't have that much time left myself, so I'd like to make the most of it."

He moved out from behind the lectern and came to stand in front of her, pulling her up out of the pew. Her stomach lurched with foreboding.

He dropped to one knee.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" she hissed through gritted teeth as everyone in the church sucked in a breath in unison.

He pulled a little velvet box from inside his jacket pocket. "Molly Hooper. Will you marry me?" he asked, looking up at her with his eyes wide as he opened the box. He bit his lip while he waited for her to react.

 _I'm going to murder him. Two funerals at once, it'll save everybody time_ , she thought giddily.

He broke character for a split second to lift his eyebrows a hair and widen his eyes even more, _play along and make it good_.

She put her hand over her chest and heaved a breath. "Oh Sherlock," she gushed. "Yes, yes, of course!"

He grinned and it actually looked real; he made his hands shake visibly as he slipped the ring on her finger. A wave of gasps and murmurs rolled through the crowd.

He stood and pulled her into a hug, bending so his lips were next to her ear. "If I had a mic, I'd drop it right now and peace out," he said. "Is the coffin moving? She's probably spinning in it."

"You are such an arsehole," she said into his ear while she clung to his neck.

"I know," he said, sounding well-pleased.  "Never let it be said I don't know how to put the 'fun' in 'funeral.'"

"I'm not helping you fake your own death again." She was sure he had that planned after his little 'not having time left' thing; she wondered how long he'd been sitting on the idea.

"Spoilsport," he said, rocking them back and forth a little bit. "You could stand to cry a little. Pull out a nose-hair if you have to, I'll cover you."

"Words cannot begin to describe the world of hurt you're in for when this is over," she said.

He pulled back and gave her a quick kiss right on the lips. "Do you promise?" he said, eyes sparkling.

"Oh, I promise," she said darkly.

She spent the rest of the funeral fondly recalling dismembering the chocolate Sherlock with a wire saw and a blowtorch, only substituting the real one in the memory.

*

Molly walked with Sherlock's parents in the procession from the chapel to the churchyard, as both Sherlock and Mycroft were pallbearers; she hoped to God Sherlock didn't do something to make them drop the coffin. She could just imagine the body rolling out and down the hillside to the motorway below, causing a ten-car pile-up when a lorry swerved to avoid it...

"I'd like at least two grandchildren, three if you can manage it. Identical twins run on my side, you might get lucky," Mummy Holmes said. Apart from their introduction, it was the first thing she'd said to her. Ever.

"I'll, ah, see what I can do," Molly said.

"You should honeymoon in Jamaica. The resort we stayed at was Hedonism II, cannot recommend it highly enough. The food was amazing and the view of the beach was simply spectacular."

"The view inside the room was too," Daddy Holmes said, his face innocent as he gave his wife's bum a firm squeeze.

Molly stopped wondering how Sherlock had turned out the way he did.

*

"Welcome to the Hotel California," Cousin Sybil said as soon as they stepped into the entryway of the actual mansion where the wake and will-reading was being held. Molly was 98% certain it was Aunt Eudora's house. Well, one of them.

"I mean 'the Family,'" she added, pressing a glass into Molly's hand.

"What is this?" Molly asked, sniffing the glass.

"Scotch that they found in an iceberg or something. Trying to drink it all because Billy's set to inherit it. He's coveted it his entire life because he's got a hard-on for adventure and it's some historical... explorer... thing. Ha! Can't wait to hear what he tells the lads on the polo team. He'll probably just dump a bottle of Glengoolie in the decanter and add a few drops of Dettol and pass it off as the real thing. Those idiots would drink horse piss if someone told them it was single malt and stuck a £750 pricetag on it." She drained her glass and wandered away.

*

"I swear to everything that is holy, if you put your fingers in or even near my mouth again I _will_ bite them off."

"I'm feeding you, it's romantic. Have some more cake," he said, breaking off a piece of the very plain, very dry slice of poundcake on her plate. Apparently even the food was meant to inspire a suitable state of misery.

"Really not. Have you even washed your hands since you carried that coffin?"

"Why does that matter? You touch dead people all day at work."

"I wear _gloves_."

"Stupid NHS rules. Imagine the budget savings if they did away with that policy. Maybe I'll mention that to Cousin Fred, he's an MP."

"Please don't."

*

The reading of the will really was in a library with leather furniture and wood panelling. There were stag heads and swords, too.

She ended up on an ancient sofa obviously made of irregularly-shaped rocks and corners of bricks, squashed between Sherlock and some elderly Aunt whose name she hadn't caught who smelled vaguely of mothballs, sour milk, and old money.

The solicitor shuffled a stack of papers and blah-blah-blahed on about his contact information and legally binding whatever-whatever until finally he jumped right into the who-gets-what. "To the worst daughter God has ever seen fit to burden a mother with, I leave the house and all associated properties. Do try not to lose it in your next divorce, you simple tart," he read in a monotone.

"To my idiot son Rudy, I leave my entire wardrobe and a sum of fifty thousand pounds so you can finally get the operation. You did a piss-poor job of hiding it. I never should have let you have that teddy bear when you were six because I knew it would turn you into a nancy-boy, but you begged and begged, what was a mother to do? I hope you find yourself a nice man to settle down with."

"Ha, joke's on her, he's not actually a woman or gay, he's just a cross-dresser," Sherlock said, leaning into Molly and putting his hand on her leg. "Going to have a bit of a kip until they get to me, wake me when it's my turn." He settled back against the sofa, but left his hand on her thigh.

*

"...And to that little prick William Sherlock," the solicitor droned. Sherlock's elbow slid off the arm of the sofa and he woke with a start when he heard his name. "I leave my departed husband's collection of coprolites."

"Oh-ho, yes!" Sherlock clenched his fists and wiggled in his seat. "I love fossils."

"Eat shit and die, you little arsehole," the solicitor finished in his monotone.

*

She found herself pressed up against the door of a froufrou parlour this time; she'd excused herself to go to the toilet shortly after they'd got to Sherlock in the reading when it became apparent there was no end in sight and of course he followed her.

She wasn't even sure how it happened. One minute she was walking along, opening doors in the labyrinthine corridors hoping to find the library again, or at least a room with a liquor cabinet, and the next she was inside a lady's sitting room with Sherlock's tongue down her throat and his thigh snug between hers. She really hoped this sudden display of affection had nothing to do with his inheritance. She supposed maybe it was just the fact that it was a funeral; they always made her a little randy, too. Some kind of pushback against mortality, she thought to herself as Sherlock wedged his hand behind her to unzip her dress. Whatever. She was in the sweet spot between bored and drunk and pretty much anything short of arson would seem like a good idea.

"Maybe try to make it last the full minute this time," she said, hiking up her skirt.

"Should be good for longer than that, had a wank this morning before we left."

Her lips pursed into a question, even though it took her a few seconds to figure out what to ask. "Wh— Where was I?"

"In the shower," he answered against the crook of her neck like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Where were you?"

"Kitchen."

"You had a wank in my kitchen at four in the morning. Before a funeral."

"I was nervous. It helps."

"Oh. my. God."

"I haven't even put it in yet, must be doing something right," Sherlock quipped before kissing her again.

*

Molly leaned against the door of the car watching the family members file out of the house with cardboard boxes and paintings and lamps like it was a fire sale. Sherlock had already loaded his boxes in the boot; it was indeed a sizeable collection of shit.

Sherlock flopped against the side of the car next to her, his head lolling back against the roof. "Really hope this is the last one for a while. I don't want to see any of these people again _ever_."

"Well, at least til the wedding," Molly said, a teasing lilt to her voice that was only half-teasing.

"Oh God, which one's getting married now?"

She held her left hand in front of his face.

His face did a thing where it crumpled in on itself in confusion before smoothing out again with new and different wrinkles; he looked at her askance. "You really would?"

"You're highly educated, quite fit, and rich. I mean, maybe you're not great in bed, but a girl can't have everything," she said lightly.

"That last bit is invalid because we weren't actually in a bed. I lasted the full minute and even gave you an extra thirty seconds this time. Sorry about your dress, though."

"At least it's machine washable. Wouldn't want to take _that_ to the dry cleaners."

"Mine know not to ask questions, it's better for everyone. And I tip well."

"Mm," Molly acknowledged. She knew all too well the kinds of things he ended up covered in. At least he was considerate enough to clean out her shower drain, after. Even snaked the pipes after an incident with tarmac and another with rubber cement. He'd posed as a plumber once on a case, he'd told her. The joke she made about laying pipe had gone completely over his head. Good times.

Sherlock didn't say anything else, but he slipped his hand into hers and interlaced their fingers, leaning against her side.

"You realize we're going to have to invite every single person that was here today, right?" she said, smirking.

"Bugger. How would you feel about a destination wedding? Somewhere far away. With no waiting period."

"Like the Caribbean? Your parents seemed to really like the resort they stayed at. Right up your alley, too, it was clothing-optional."

"...And there goes my ability to ever have an erection again."

Molly opened her mouth to make some kind of joke about size or staying power, then closed it again. Really shouldn't cut off her own nose to spite her face.

"You know, I'm a doctor, I can probably do something about that," she said instead.

Sherlock shifted against the side of the car and cleared his throat. "...Aaand you just did," he said.

"Really?"

"It's a thing," he said defensively.

"This is going to be fun," she said, her lips curling into a smile. If she looked in a mirror she'd probably have devil horns and flames dancing in her pupils.

"Yes," Sherlock said simply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Why yes, that was an Archer ref. And there are callbacks galore.)
> 
> Also, see comments for commentfic.


	54. "It's my turn to pick"/ "I think it's broken"/ "Isn't that bad luck?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by forthegenuine: Hello! You give us such brilliant work <3 These are and/or for the third round of drabble ask memes: 18 (It's my turn to pick), 24 (I think it's broken), 108 (Isn't that bad luck?). Thank you!! 
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108  
> Yet to be filled: 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73, 54, 89, 32, 71

"Before you say anything, it's for a case," Sherlock said, blocking the door to her flat. He'd been waiting for her in the entryway when she got home.

"That bodes well," she said, reaching for the door handle.

"No! Let me go in first and step exactly where I step."

She wondered, vaguely, if it was booby traps or splatter-pattern recreation or one of those laser security systems that you could only get past with techno music and gymnastics and/or dancing.

It was not that.

Her entire lounge and kitchen was filled with... things; tracks and ropes and pulleys and bins and buckets oh dear God—

"It's a Rube Goldberg machine," Sherlock mansplained.

"I'm the one who watches films, I know what they are," she said, looking around. "So where are the dominoes?"

"How did you know there were dominoes?"

"They always start with dominoes, it's like a rule."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Follow me!"

*

"I think it's broken," she said when the motion ground to a halt somewhere between the paint-can> pulley> lever > billiard ball-ramp segment and the zigzag-marble-track> fan> toy-sailboat-with-wheels> spoon catapult section.

Sherlock was perturbed, muttering to himself as he traced the path and tried to figure out what went wrong.

"I think it's the diameter of the hole in the dribble-glass," he said finally. "Be a lamb and fetch me a file."

"Magic word?"

"Abracadabra, hey presto, alakazam? Really don't know what you're going for."

"Just say 'please.'"

Sherlock squinted at her, looking momentarily confused. "...Please?" he said slowly, like it was his first time pronouncing a word in a foreign language and didn't want to get it wrong.

"Close enough," she said, rolling her eyes before picking her way through the contraption to get to her toolbox.

Sometimes she wondered if that's how Sherlock flirted, since she'd met his mother and he was definitely _not_ raised like that. Really, it was probably Mycroft who led Sherlock to believe he could simply annoy girls into taking their clothes off. Wanker.

*

"Okay, so what if you use the bowling pin as the counter-weight and just add another two books to tip the iron onto the end of the gold club?"

"Not enough clearance under the birdcage."

"So move the birdcage up and add another clothes pin to the handkerchief parachute."

He looked at the set-up again, ducking and bobbing around to see all the angles. "That could work," he said. "You're rather good at this."

"Lonely childhood," she shrugged.

"Makes for a more interesting adulthood," he said off-handedly, untying the antique tea kettle from where it was suspended over the fishbowl.

She took the compliment.

*

"This would have been so much easier if I could have found a parrot that actually eats crackers," Sherlock said, crawling under the ladder.

"Isn't that bad luck?" She wasn't superstitious, really, but considering there were not one, but three instances of open flame or a heating element of some kind in play, plus an axe and a precariously balanced bowling ball, she didn't want to invite trouble.

"Parrots? You're thinking of peacocks, and that's only the feathers. Evil eye."

She started to clarify, but then decided it really wasn't worth it. Her time was better spent watching his bum wiggle as he reset the mousetraps and put the ping-pong balls back in place.

*

"Fine, I'll get you a new toaster," he said. "I don't know why you need one, you eat toast maybe three times in a calender year. Just hold the bread over the hob with tongs like a normal person."

"Were you raised by wolves?" she asked seriously.

"You've met my brother, I leave you to your deductions."

*

"Okay. Alarm clock is set, the umbrella and the accordion arm—yes, I will get you a new make-up mirror, too—are both oiled, window shade is re-rolled, and the broom is in place," he said, pointing as he double-checked everything. "If you would be so kind as to do the honours, _again_."

Molly released the ball on the Newton's Cradle; they held their breaths as the highly-controlled chaos unfolded, the dominoes falling and the marbles twirling down the first chute. She really hoped this would be the last run.

*

"Well that was satisfying," he said, watching the egg drop into the funnel, then the contents run into the frying pan. "Are you hungry? I haven't eaten since this morning."

"You know I can't use my kitchen to actually make actual food until all this is gone."

"So, takeaway?"

"Sure. It's my turn to pick." She ducked around the old boot on the swing-arm to get to the menus clipped to the fridge. "Did you solve it?"

"Yep. Turns out you _can_ crack an egg by dropping it into a funnel. The sous chef wasn't lying, so it was actually the pantry cook that—"

"So you didn't actually need to do all this," she said, gesturing to the room.

"Strictly speaking, no." He pulled his head back and pressed his lips together in that way that made him look like a sock puppet.

"Right," she said.

"It was fun, though," he said, looking at her askance.

"Yeah, it was fun," she admitted, her tone reluctant as she rolled her eyes.

Sherlock's lips twitched into one of his tiny, pleased smiles.

There really were worse ways to spend an evening.


	55. "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"/ "This is a once in a lifetime thing and you want me to blow it off?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by mychakk: Oh 99 (Do you kiss your mother with that mouth) and 25 (This is a once in a lifetime thing and you want me to blow it off ) sounds awesome too. But feel free to do whichever you like :) and thank you!
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25  
> Yet to be filled: 61, 66, 52, 80, 73, 54, 89, 32, 71
> 
> Set vaguely in the same universe as chapter 15.

"This is a once in a lifetime thing and you want me to blow it off?"

"Molly, they have sales every bank holiday. You can shop online on the train on the way there and you won't even have to knock over anyone's Gran or get in a hair-pulling contest with a university student."

"Yeah, but that's the best part."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, unsure if she was joking. She may look harmless, but sometimes he thought she was actually just a tiny, hard lump of condensed rage in kitten's clothing.

"Besides," she continued, "I need bras."

 _Need? Hardly_ , he thought. Not really much to support and he, for one, was always much happier when she went without. He knew better than to say any of that out loud.

"And they only sell those on the High Street." He gave her one of her own flat looks. Didn't work nearly as well for him, he had actual _lips_ , not just lizard scales around his mouth like she did.

"There's nothing standard about bras and jeans, it's like each one is bespoke but for someone that's not you and you have to go through every one until you find the one that's close enough. And they're ephemeral like spring flowers, you can never get the same cut or style again, even if you go back to the shop the next day. The rack you found them on is already gone and there's a shop dummy with a dress that's still two seasons away in its place and none of the shop girls even remember carrying that brand. Every time I walk through the doors of Debenham's it's like I've stepped in a fairy circle," she said, throwing her hands in the air. He stepped aside to avoid the blood splatter.

"Fine, I will buy you bras _and_ knickers to match at full price if you just—"

It was, of course, at that moment that one of the students observing the post-mortem cleared his throat. "Uh, Dr. Hooper? You were saying about the, uh, scarring on the lungs?"

"Oh, right, yeah. Probably TB. Good thing we're all wearing masks!" She looked at Sherlock from behind her clear splatter guard and gave him the creepiest grin, like a doll's face in a horror film.

He wasn't wearing a mask.

And there were actually people out there who still wondered why he'd chosen her to fall in love with. Well, maybe not so much 'chosen' as 'slipped on a banana peel and landed on his arse, dazed and confused.'

*

"So you're going to chase a bowling ball made of cheese down a hill," she said, pulling her hair free from its elastic and fingercombing it before sliding into bed.

"Not exactly."

She froze under the duvet mid-burrow. " _I'm_ going to chase a bowling ball made of cheese down a hill."

"Yup," he said, reaching over her to switch off the light.

"And what's John doing this time to prevent him from going?"

"Threw out his back during 'tummy time' with Rosie two days ago. You should be thrilled, you'll get to slake your bloodthirst _and_ you may just win our Goddaughter's birth weight in cheese."

"And the underwear?"

"Still on the table. Really, you could stand to upgrade, anyway." He hoped she'd be open to suggestion when it came time to pick them out. He was partial to French knickers, himself. Not that he'd ever get to see them anywhere but on her laundry pile or the drying rack in the bathroom, but hope sprang eternal.

"I like my plain cotton just fine, thank you."

"And you wonder why you're still single," he muttered.

"Yeah, it has nothing at all to do with having a platonic domestic arrangement with the world's only consulting cockblock," she grumbled, flipping onto her side. "Goddammit, what have I told you about the cold feet?"

"Can't hear you, already asleep," he said, doing a theatrical snore and a whistle while he scrunched his toes against her calves. He got a soft elbow to the kidney for it. _Goodnight kisses are overrated anyway_ , he told himself.

*

"So what am I supposed to be looking for?"

"Don't know yet. Just keep warming up, maybe do some stretching. Wouldn't want to pull anything."

Molly rolled her eyes and started to stretch as he scanned the crowd. Of course, she just had to bend over and plant her palms flat on the ground between her feet right then. If only she'd worn joggers or sweats or anything _not_ made of spandex.

*

"Oh look, there's a bloke dressed like you," she said, running in place to keep her muscles warmed up.

"What? Where?"

"Behind the Storm Trooper and next to Aquaman."

"Who?"

"Four to the left of the dinosaur. You at least know what those are, right? Or are they filed under 'Solar System' because they were killed by a rock from space?"

"That was only the last extinction, there were two others before it that don't have a smoking gun in the form of a 'rock from space' like the Creteaceous-Paleogene event," he said, slightly annoyed that he'd made one stupid slip of the tongue _once_ however many years ago and then had to go and double-down on it on principle and now it was a _thing_ , like the hat. Which some bloody wanker was wearing, along with a black trench coat and a cheap suit that obviously came from a charity shop. God, how he missed the days of anonymity.

"Nerd," Molly coughed.

"Says the woman who organizes her spice cabinet by genus."

"It's not by genus, it's by flavour profile, and those things just happen to mostly coincide."

*

Sherlock winced as he watched the competitors in the first race go arse-over-teakettle down the muddy hill like someone had dumped a box of rag dolls at the top. He winced harder when he saw the paramedics trotting off with three men on stretchers and four others freely bleeding from head wounds, including the winner.

"You know you don't actually have to compete, I've seen what I needed to for the case and we can go home any time," he said. The thought of her actually getting hurt made him queasy.

"That cheese is mine," she said, bouncing from side to side and shaking out her shoulders and arms.

"Is this the point where I'm supposed to kiss you for good luck?"

Molly looked at him askance. "And you say I watch too much telly."

Bugger. Was worth a shot anyway, though.

*

"I can't believe it's only been ten minutes and it's up on YouTube," Molly said, looking down at her phone while the paramedic wrapped her ankle. All things considered, it could have been much worse. "And it's bleeped. Huh."

Sherlock leaned over her and she pushed play again.

"No, you stupid f-----ng cow, I was the first over the line!" The woman in the roller derby outfit bellowed at Molly.

Molly stepped closer, cheeks already blotchy from the cold and the trip down the hill. "Listen here, you sh--- f-----ng c--- s-----g wh---"

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" Sherlock said, equally appalled and aroused at Molly's display. He'd still been shoving his way through the crowd at that point to get to the finish line, so he'd apparently missed that. He'd got there just in time to watch Molly get pulled off the other woman.

"Who do you think I learned it from?" Then, "I better get that cheese. What's taking the judges so long?"

"You know it's just cheese, yeah? Could always just cut it in half," the paramedic—who reminded him a little bit of Stamford, only twenty years younger—said. "I've got cling film in the back of the ambulance and someone's got to have a knife, it's a cheese festival, after all."

"Huh," Molly said, then leaned forward to look over at the roller derby woman.

"Five pounds is better than none," the woman shrugged.

*

"You know, five pounds is actually kind of a lot of cheese," Molly said as she hobbled into her flat. He probably should have done the gentlemanly thing and carried her, but she was caked in mud. He couldn't believe they'd actually let her on the train. They did make her sit on a bin liner, though.

"At least it stores well?"

"True. I suppose we'll be having a lot of macaroni cheese and cheese toasties for supper, though. I've said the word cheese too much and now it doesn't sound like a word anymore. Cheese. Cheeeeese. You say it."

"You're sure you didn't hit your head on the way down?" he asked, prying open one of her eyelids.

"Quite sure. And I've had nothing stronger than a paracetamol, either. This is all just Molly Hooper. Which, speaking of _all_ of Molly Hooper, I think I'm going to need help getting into the shower—"

 _My ship has finally come in_ , he thought.

"—so I need to phone Mary before I do anything else. Can you, ah, help me with my shoes and put a bin liner on the chair for me?"

"Yes, dear," he said glumly.

 


	56. "Yeah, okay, when pigs fly"/ "She was hot, admit it."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anitaww-blog: For the new drabble challenge: # 61 (Yeah, okay, when pigs fly) and/or #66 (She was hot, admit it.) Thank you so much! 
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66  
> Yet to be filled: 52, 80, 73, 54, 89, 32, 71, 16, 20, 27, 45, 57

Sherlock tried not to look down Molly's very low-cut vest; she was practically on his lap since they were crammed in the back seat of John's car and he hadn't taken Rosie's carseat out. She had crumbs in her décolletage from the brownie she was eating.

"Oh for—just have a bite already, you're staring at it like you haven't eaten in weeks," she said, holding the brownie up to his mouth with one hand, the kitchen roll 'napkin' under it to catch crumbs (for all the good _that_ did).

He wasn't even the slightest bit hungry, didn't want to eat on a case anyway, but he couldn't very well say, 'Actually, I was staring at your tits and would rather lick the crumbs off them, if you don't mind,' now could he?

"It's yours, I couldn't. Well, just one bite," he said, convincingly mimicking the pointless dance people did when they wanted a thing but tried to act like they didn't. He took a Goldilocks-sized bite of the brownie and chewed before he realized what was in his mouth.

"Molly, where did you get this?" he said around the bite of brownie. He couldn't exactly spit it out.

"Mrs. Hudson gave it to me when I mentioned I hadn't had dinner, she just baked them."

He finished chewing and swallowed. "And you took it?"

"Yes?"

"From Mrs. Hudson."

"Yes?"

"Molly, it's a _hash_ brownie. This is one of her soothers."

"Oh."

"...And you're still going to eat it, aren't you."

"Well, I mean, it's rude not to finish it. And I can't just toss it out the window, that's littering. Or leave it in John's car," she said before taking another bite of brownie. "Di' oo wan' fum mo'?"

*

"Is she going to be okay?" John said as they got up from their seats to prowl the area backstage. Mary was already hanging around the rear entrance, pretending to be a groupie hoping to catch sight of the band.

"I got her a bottle of water and a glow stick, she'll be fine. She won't be peaking for another hour or two, anyway," Sherlock said. "Besides, she's hardly the only one here who's stoned."

"It's Pink Floyd, we're probably the only ones here who _aren't_ stoned."

"Well..."

"What, really?"  John looked at him askance.

"It was only three bites, should be perfectly fine. A scant third of the brownie at most. Cannabis in any form never did much for me, anyway."

"Great. Wonderful," John said before ducking behind a partition.

*

"This music is so _nuanced_ , it's got _texture_ , but it's _delicate_ and so full of _emotion_ —why haven't I ever listened to this before?" he asked John where they were crouched behind the stack of hard-sided travel cases for the equipment.

"Probably because you weren't flying high on Mrs. Hudson's Saturday Night Specials," John muttered. "How much longer do you think we need to be here?"

"Oh, probably only another forty minutes or so."

"Think we should go and check on Molly?"

"She's fine, got a text, Mary's with her."

*

"So you and Molly," John began. He just couldn't be content to sit there quietly and enjoy the music.

"Yes?" _No._ But protesting too much would be suspicious.

"You ever think about, y'know—?"

Play dumb. "What?"

"Giving it a go?"

_All the bloody time. Vigorously and repeatedly._ "Giving what a go?"

"Going out, relationships, sex, that sort of thing?"

Sherlock narrowed his (probably bloodshot) eyes at John.

"She's intelligent, she puts up with all your bullshit—God only knows why—she's fit..."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Come on, Christmas that year? In that dress? She was hot, admit it."

"I will admit no such thing. Barely even noticed she was wearing a dress."

John smiled. "Ah. There it is."

"There's what?"

"You _do_ want to shag her," he said, highly amused with his deduction.

"Yeah, okay, when pigs fly," Sherlock said, embarrassed at being caught out.

John's grin widened before he dampened his face into something more serious. "Well, mate, if I may direct your attention what's currently floating over the audience..." He pointed up.

Bollocks. There was a giant pig balloon moving lazily over the crowd. When did _that_ get there?

*

Sherlock's phone chimed a text; the would-be assassin was on the move. Honestly, why anyone would want to kill the lead guitarist of a cover band (and especially one this _good_ ) was beyond him.

Sherlock provided the distraction, grabbing the mic and shoving the lead singer out of the way and into the actual target, causing him to fall behind the stack of speakers.

John needed another minute to get to the assassin, so Sherlock stalled for time by singing along with the song that the rest of the band was playing. Lucky for him, the lyrics were on a monitor built into the stage (OCD on the singer's part, going by the state of his fingers). He kept singing as two bulky security guards hopped onstage and tried to run him down; once he saw John had the perp on the ground in the empty space in front of the stage, Sherlock tossed the mic to the lead singer and jumped off the stage, then vaulted the barricade and disappeared into the crowd.

He texted Lestrade on his way back to the section their seats were in; John would catch up eventually. Best make their exit now, before they were found and forcefully ejected. Or worse, _thanked_.

*

"Oh my God, you know what would be great right now? Pizza. With chicken nuggets and bacon on it. And barbecue sauce," Molly said as she got in the car.

"Huh. That does sound good." It did. Sherlock found he was suddenly starving. And he wanted a cigarette. And blowjob, even if he'd never actually had one of those before. Pizza first, though, and maybe lying on the bed and listening to more music. Mrs. Hudson probably had some albums he could borrow.

"Was she like that the whole time?" John asked Mary.

"No, she mostly just waved her glowstick and talked about how great house plants are. Pretty anticlimactic, actually, she didn't even take her top off or anything," Mary said, closing her door and clipping her seatbelt.

"Why would I take my top off? They didn't even have beads."

_Note to self, get beads._

"What are you going to do with beads?" Molly asked.

Did he say that out loud? "Bees. Get bees. When I retire. Amazing creatures. They make honey and wax and they... sting... people," he rambled, trying to save himself.

"Bees are _awesome_. They're like the archetype for a matriarchal Utopian socialist society," Molly began excitedly, turning to face him and planting a hand on his thigh, gripping tighter for emphasis. "We should retire now and get a bee farm. They're all dying, it's the neonicotinoids, so we could breed like, resistant bees. Little Marxist Queens, rising up against the machine! I mean Monsanto would probably send someone to burn our hives. And our house down. Wait—what about Mycroft?"

"What _about_ Mycroft?"

"Is he part of the international Big Ag cabal? You said he's got his hands in a lot of pies."

He officially had no idea what she was on about, but the thought of retiring together was nice. And he really was hungry. "I could eat a pie right now."

"Pizza pie. You should phone so it's there when we get back."

"Mince pie. I wonder if Mrs. Hudson has any in the freezer. Can you get them in August? I don't think I've eaten one in any month but December."

"No, no, no, pizza," she said, tapping his thigh. Her hand moved a bit higher. She didn't even know she was doing it, probably. "I have a need for cheese like you wouldn't believe," she said, her voice getting croaky on the last word because she drew it out.

"You are so stoned," he said.

"I know, right? Mrs. Hudson is the best."

"She is," Sherlock agreed.

"If I ever have a kid, I'm going to name her Martha," Molly continued.

"Why does everyone I know have an M name? Molly, Mary, Martha, Mycroft, Moriarty, Magnussen... It's weird, isn't it?"

"You don't have an M name," Mary supplied from the front seat. "Or John. Or Greg. Or—"

"Yes, yes, but I'm sure it's a disproportionate amount in relation to the entire population. I wonder what the exact percentage of the population actually is that have names that begin with M..."

He got out his phone to start looking it up, but was quickly distracted by Molly, who'd become completely engrossed by the texture of the fabric of his trousers.

Still another half-hour back to Baker Street; he was going to die.

*

Molly's flat was closer; Mary practically shoved them out of the moving car because she 'couldn't take the foreplay' any longer. They both thought it was hilarious, until they somehow ended up on floor of the upstairs hallway. Naked. Everything was a bit of a blur after that, but he thought there was pizza at one point and he may have indexed Molly's socks, which wasn't a euphemism. He made a mental note to thank Mrs. Hudson tomorrow. And get a few more brownies for the next weekend.

 


	57. "She’s got a way with words"/ "Fight me."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anonymous: Oh another prompt? Lovely..52 and/or 80 please. Thank you :)
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80  
> Yet to be filled: 73, 54, 89, 32, 71, 16, 20, 27, 45, 57
> 
> Directly follows Chapter 55.

“She’s got a way with words, that’s for sure,” John said, handing Sherlock’s phone back to him.

“That she does,” Sherlock agreed, pocketing the phone before Rosie could make a grab for it.

“So how bad’s the ankle?”

“Probably out of work for a week, considering the amount of time she has to spend on her feet.  She can limp without crutches, at least, though steps aren’t really a good idea.”

“But she went up them anyway, didn’t she?”  John understood headstrong women.  

“Well…”

“Well…?”

“I might have carried her up. Under protest.”

John made a face, _that had to hurt/ you’ll be paying for that later, mate_.

“How’s the back, by the way?” Sherlock asked.  God he felt old just _saying_ it.

“Better, yeah, thanks.  Just wrenched it.  Really should not’ve waited til after forty to have kids.”

“Mm,” Sherlock said, unsure of what social nicety he was supposed to respond with.  Probably shouldn’t point out that God only knew _what_ he would have spawned with any of the strumpets he’d known before Mary; having a dullard baby would have been such a terrible waste of a Watson.

“So you, uh, ever think about it?”

“I think about a lot of things. You’re going to have to be a tad more specific in regards to ‘it.’”

“Having kids.”

“One usually needs a receptive partner for that, generally female.  Unless you expect me to steal one?”

John snorted, but didn’t let it drop. “I’m sure there’s got to be a woman out there you could convince that spending the next twenty-odd years with you wouldn’t be a fate worse than death.  You probably already know one,” he said, looking up at the ceiling, face slackened into something innocent.

“'I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member,’” Sherlock quoted.  It was a lie, of course, but he could hardly say ‘well, thing is, mate, I’m a bit hung up on this one bird who, for some unknowable reason, sees me as some kind of emotionless asexual galpal, and I have no idea how to disavow her of that notion because I’m terrified that she won’t ever feel the same.’

“Don’t know what you’re missing out on,” John said.

“Oh, I have a general idea.  An endless parade of three AM feedings and nappy changes and unpredictable vomiting, followed by sixteen more years of shrieking terrorism until you pack them off to university and leave the country,” he said, bouncing Rosie and patting her back as she snuggled against his collarbone.

John gave him a pointed look, which he pointedly ignored.  He was saved from the impending heart-to-heart by Mary trundling down the stairs.  Molly followed close behind, scooting down one step at a time on her bum and hissing each time she hit a board.

“She’s got a bruise on her arse the size of a dinner plate.  Oddly enough, it’s shaped like Australia.  It even has another one under it that could be Tasmania,” Mary said, gently taking the baby from him.

He went to the bottom of the stairs to wait for Molly so he could help her up.

“Before you even ask, you are not taking pictures of it,” Molly grumped.

“You’re no fun.”  She didn’t say he couldn’t see it, though.  There was always hope.

“You want fun?  Fight me.”

_Yes please_ , he thought, trying not to imagine how play-fighting would turn into wrestling which would lead to clothes being shed and maybe he’d even end up with a baby before forty, after all.  Not that he actually did want one, exactly.  Maybe.

“You should really see someone about those anger issues,” he said, playing with fire.

She scowled at him right on cue.

*

Molly’s face split in a jaw-cracking yawn, the suddenness of which seemed to surprise her.  It was only half-eight.  Then again, they’d been up early and she’d had a bit of a day, so he could understand why she’d be tired.  All the carbs from dinner didn’t help, either; she’d downed an entire baguette by herself and nearly licked the fondue pot clean (and she was the only person under the age of seventy that he knew that even _owned_ a fondue pot).

He dried his hands and abandoned the dishes in the sink (John would have an actual heart attack if he knew that he sometimes cleaned things without even being bribed, cajoled, or threatened into doing so, sometimes without even so much as being _asked_ ) to help Molly off the sofa.  She didn’t complain this time when he scooped her up and carried her up the stairs.

“You can put me down now,” she said as he started back the hallway.

“Yes I can.”

“…But you aren’t.”

“Nope.”

“Better be careful, I could get used to this,” she said, stifling another yawn.

_So could I_ , he thought.

He bent down to set her on the bed, carefully so as not to aggravate her ankle or her bruise.  There was a moment when their faces were close enough that all he would have had to do was turn his head; he just couldn’t do it.  Not now, at least; she was going to need help getting around and he didn’t want to make it any more uncomfortable for her, especially if he was completely off-base in thinking he had a chance.

He straightened and grabbed his pillow, moving back the blankets and positioning it so she could rest her ankle on it.

“Do you need anything else before I go back downstairs?  You don’t have a bell, do you?  I could hang it in the lounge and run a string to the bed and you could ring it when you needed something, like in a manor house.”  

“Or I could just text you,” she said, giving him one of her half-smiles.

“Such limited imagination,” he said, lifting his eyebrows and rolling his eyes.  "If you must.“

He left before he could put his foot in his mouth by getting all mushy and wishing her goodnight while tucking her in and kissing her forehead.

He’d just crossed from the kitchen into the lounge when he got a text.

**Thank you for carrying me, btw.**

**I am sorry you got hurt.  SH**

He fired off the text before he could second-guess himself; he should have said it earlier.  Kind of weird to sign it when he was literally ten (vertical) feet away from her, but it was also kind of his thing, so.

**I needed a holiday anyway.  And we got free cheese!**

**You should have held out for all ten pounds, you clearly won.  SH**

**There’s such a thing as too much cheese.**

**You’re sure you didn’t hit your head?  If you’re concussed, I can think of a few ways to keep you up all night.  SH**

_Oh shit._  He just sent that. _Shit shit shit._ Every second felt like an eternity until his phone vibrated with her return text.

**You do a good enough job without even trying.**

He scowled down at his phone, then scowled up at the ceiling.  What was that supposed to mean?

**What’s that supposed to mean?  SH**

**What’s what supposed to mean?  I’m really tired now, falling asleep, zzzzzzz**

Then, **Night xxx**

He stood staring at his phone for too long, unsure of how to respond, until it was too late to text back without it being weird.


	58. "I’m pregnant."/ "It sure as hell changes things!"/ "Are you drunk?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by whenisayrunrun:Hello I wish you a wonderful day and 73 (I’m pregnant.) ( for the Drabble challenge please? Thank you x  
> Requested by happysappylovedove: ❤️❤️❤️ just love all your writing...If you're still taking prompts 54. It sure as hell changes things! 89. Are you drunk? 
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73, 54, 89  
> Yet to be filled: 26, 32, 71, 16, 20, 27, 45, 57
> 
> Two prompts in one fill because they just went together like chocolate and peanut butter. Tom-verse.

"Are you drunk?"

" _No_ ," Sherlock said scornfully, unsure which John he should be focussing on. "Yes," he admitted.

"It's two in the afternoon, why are you drinking? You never drink."

"I'm pregnant, John."

"Uh huh."

Sherlock shook his head, trying to get the right words to fall out. "We're pregnant. Not you-us" he waved his finger at the space between them. "Molly is—" he made another series of gestures to indicate her state and, just in case John wasn't sure how it got there, how it got there.

"Molly Hooper? You're sure you're not just misreading something? You do, ah, tend to jump to the wrong conclusions around her."

Sherlock held up the pregnancy test (the first one, the _important_ one; he'd saved it).

"Oh," John said, looking at the test. "Wow. Didn't even know she was seeing anyone. Good on her, then, if that's what she wants."

"What about what I want? I can't be a father. I can't even take care of myself. Look at this place! I had a bowl of crushed up Oreos and coffee whitener for breakfast because Mrs. Hudson was out and there wasn't anything else edible in the flat," he said miserably. Crises (existential, midlife, -of conscience, spiritual or, in this case, identity) were not his area, but he was branching out and having one anyway. Doing it in style, too.

John's face did a series of things while he struggled his way through a thought until finally the lightbulb flickered. "So when you said 'we,' it really wasn't just you making it all about you. You, ah, actually had a hand in it."

"Not a hand, no," he said. Though hands were involved at at least one point in the proceedings. Rather effectively, if he did say so himself.

"Funny, that's funny. How long have you two been...?" He did another thing with his face and his hands.

Sherlock eyed the half-full bottle of scotch on the kitchen table (a gift from a client, had been saving it to regift to Mycroft when he was being particularly annoying; he would think it was tampered-with and would never drink it, so ultimately, the joke would be on him), willing it to float over and refill his glass; he was starting to sober up and that was not what he wanted to be at the moment.

"Not long, forever, take your pick," he said, giving up and sprawling back in his chair.

"Not sure what that even means, but—yeah. Wow." John went to the kitchen and got down a glass, then poured himself two fingers from the bottle on the table. He emphatically did not top up Sherlock's glass. So much for 'best friends.' "So, uh, what are you two going to do about it? Are you even together, as a... couple?"

"No idea. She said it didn't have to change things. It sure as hell changes things! How am I supposed to sleep next to her now without being able to touch her? It was hard enough before, but now that I know the promised land _and_ she's carrying my child—"

"So you've been sleeping together, but not _sleeping together_." It was a question.

"Do keep up. Honestly."

"How long?"

"That's a bit of a personal question, isn't it?" Sherlock deflected. John would be cross, he got cross over the silliest things.

John made a face. Cross.

"Ever since I got back, more or less. I didn't like being alone." He hated being drunk, he talked too much. _In vino veritas_.

"But she was engaged. Did all three of you—?"

"Ugh, oh God no," he said, shuddering for emphasis. "Though I'm probably the reason they split."

"Ya think? So what about _sleeping together_? Sex," John clarified.

"A month, ish. Only twice. Well, three, if you're counting—"

"I'm not counting anything," John said, holding his hands up. "And wow, yeah, that's some luck. Only you."

"Bloody well better be only me," Sherlock grumbled. He'd know if she had a date or a one-night stand. Wouldn't he? John said it himself, there were very big things he missed about Molly, more than once. He thought he'd got better at looking for them since he'd been away, at seeing _her_ , but what if he really hadn't? And how the hell could he hope to raise a child with her if he didn't even know what she was thinking or feeling?

He was not nearly drunk enough for this. What he wouldn't do for the warm embrace of opiates right then, but that would surely mean the absolute end of it all. He'd probably never even get to see his child's face, let alone be part of its life.

"How far along is she?"

"Five weeks, about. Just found out last night. She texted me this morning after running a blood test on herself. Definitely pregnant."

"Wow," John repeated. Was that the only thing people could say? "I can, ah, pass on the name of Mary's midwife, if she's looking for someone. We liked her."

"For all the good she did, you delivered the baby yourself. Really still trying to delete that whole experience, by the way."

"Yeah, well, don't delete all of it, in nine months you might need it."

Sherlock felt queasy, and he knew it wasn't from the alcohol. Or even the memory of Mary and blood and ... _fluids_.

"You alright, Sherlock? You're looking a bit pale. Should I get the bin?"

"I did this to her. It's not like it's just some inconvenience, like accidentally stepping on her foot or shutting her finger in a door. I very well may have ruined her life," he said quietly, feeling the full weight of his guilt.

"Oh for—you are the world's biggest drama queen. You should have your own reality show on telly. I know you've failed to notice, but she's had feelings for you for a _very_ long time _and_ I have _personally_ overheard her talking with Mary about wanting kids and time running out. So now, it's really up to you to get yourself sobered up, cleaned up, and nut up to go be there for her, because I'm sure she's not having the easiest time with this herself," Captain John Watson said.

He tried to stop it, but a tiny tendril of hope unfurled in his chest.

"Besides, I see how you are with Rosie. You might not be a great father, but you'll be a good one."

Yes. He could do this. He _would_ do this.

"Can I borrow your speculum again?

"No you cannot."

 


	59. "Friends don’t last, they never last"/ "He would have really loved that…"/ "Don’t ever call here again"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by violetjersey: Would you consider doing #26 (Friends don’t last, they never last) for me? Hope you're having a wonderful day! Take care always!  
> Requested by sherlocked167: For the drabble ask meme: 32 (He would have really loved that…) and 71 (Don’t ever call here again), please. Thank you :) 
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73, 54, 89, 26, 32, 71  
> Yet to be filled: 16, 20, 27, 45, 57, 89, 32
> 
> Two more requests in one, everything is just melting together in my brain. And it's not even in one of my other universes (necessarily).

"You're wrong. You're so utterly and completely _wrong_ ," Sherlock said, his voice strangled like he was actually _being_ strangled on the last word, bending his knees and leaning back from the force of her apparent wrongness.

"No, you are. I don't even know what kind of person you are. I'm never talking to you again, you're dead to me," she said, turning back to her samples.

"So does this mean you're going to get me naked, take pictures, then get out a scalpel?" he'd said, Mr. Punchline. So _of course_ she had to stick to her guns, because some things were more important than flirting.

She did allow herself one last concession before she dug in (and oh, she knew this was going to make Verdun look like a weekend in the Cotswolds); she dragged her thumb across her throat and stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth in a gesture meant to imply death.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, _challenge accepted_.

*

It only took him an hour of trying to wait her out before he got bored. He started to pick up specimen dishes and pens and whatever else was to hand, floating them in front of her face and making spooky noises in her ear. She ignored it, though she did take one of the pens because hers was running out of ink and she needed a new one.

*

"Molly."

"Molly."

"Molly."

"MOLLY."

She sighed heavily. "Sometimes it's almost like I can hear his voice," she said sadly, taking a moment to gaze mournfully into the middle-distance.

His phone chimed a text; he grabbed his jacket after reading it. "This isn't over," he said before disappearing from the lab.

She smiled.

*

She didn't see him until the next day, when he came whirling into the morgue with John and Greg. She'd been expecting them since she looked over the list of overnight arrivals.

"Need to see Mrs. Murdoch, if you don't mind," Sherlock said, brusque as usual when he was on a case.

She ignored him.

She caught him looking heavenward and sticking out his jaw before he added, "Please," like he had bamboo under his fingernails.

She looked up at Greg and John, innocence and bland cheer personified. "Did you two need help with something?"

They both looked confused, but they were the type to just roll with anything.

"Body of Mrs. Murdoch, if you wouldn't mind. Please. And thank you," Greg said, hesitating a bit at the end because he knew there was something going on and correctly assumed it was a lesson being taught; any other time it would have been a good guess.

"Coming right up," Molly said, walking to the drawer and pulling her out.

She unzipped the body bag so Sherlock could examine her (she wasn't petty enough to _actually_ get in the way of a case); as he bent over the corpse with his magnifying glass out, it exploded.

Well, not so much exploded as forcefully ruptured; she was in an advanced state of decay to begin with and all the jostling must have finally been enough to force the gas and fluid through the wound in the abdomen.

"Pity Sherlock's not here. He would have really loved that…" she said, a wistful kind of fondness in her voice.

"Ha ha, very cute," Sherlock said, using the back of his hand to wipe the red off his face.

John and Greg shared a look that equated to _do you know what's going on? Nope, you? Not a clue, mate. Well, whatever, at least we were outside the splash zone_.

*

She found a frame in her desk and printed out a picture of Sherlock from Anderson's creepy fansite; she added a black ribbon and set the photo in his usual spot in the lab with some fake flowers and a few votive candles she'd scrounged from various supply cupboards and staff rooms.

He came back from wherever the case had taken him; he didn't even notice it until he started to unload specimen containers and sample bags from his coat.

"Oh for— Really?"

She sighed heavily, tracing the side of his face in the picture. "Friends don’t last, they never last," she said, heartbroken. "Out, out, brief candle."

Sherlock loomed over her and blew out the votives.

"I almost feel like he's still out there somewhere, looking down on me..." She glanced up at him, enjoying the way the muscle in his jaw twitched. "Almost as if I could reach out and touch him."

She reached up, leaving her fingers hover just in front of his face without making contact. She knew that sort of thing made his hair stand on end.

*

She came home later that evening to find a trail of muddy footprints in her front entranceway, followed by a trail of muddy Spencer Hart/ D&G/ Hugo Boss from her front door to her bathroom door, which opened in a cloud of Sherlock-scented steam when she stopped in front of it.

_Forget him being dead_ , she thought, getting an eyeful of Sherlock in just a towel. _It is me who is dead. I have died. This monkey's gone to heaven_.

Nothing she hadn't seen before, of course, including the scowl, but she had basically the same reaction every time.

Of course that's when her doorbell rang; she wasn't expecting anyone, but apparently Sherlock was. She cut him off as he started forward, dashing down the stairs before he could. He really did bring out the child in her.

She checked the peephole and oh goodie, it was Wiggins. She opened the door, because it might be something important.

"Shezza asked me'a bring 'ese," Wiggins said, holding up an IKEA bag. She wondered when Sherlock _or_ Wiggins had ever set foot in an IKEA.

She grabbed the bag just as Sherlock reached past her to take it.

"He died. He's dead. Don't call here ever again," she said, closing the door in Wiggins' face as he opened his mouth to protest.

She took the bag with— she peered inside, jeans and a hoodie, one of his 'disguises' (more like an excuse to dress like a normal person)—Sherlock's things to the kitchen, where she set it on the breakfast bar before she went to start tea for herself. Sherlock began to rifle the bag almost immediately; she turned around just in time with the filled kettle to see the towel drop before he stepped into his pants. She didn't know if it was better or worse that he was facing away.

"Exactly how long are you planning on keeping this up?" he asked conversationally, running his thumbs under the elastic of the pants and giving a little wiggle to settle everything.

"I kept it up for two years, last time," she said contrarily, then remembered she wasn't supposed to be talking. Bollocks.

Sherlock turned and looked at her; there were a few different conflicting emotions on his face when she was only expecting an expression of annoyance, exasperation, or triumph. He quickly schooled his face into something less... open.

"I thought the only dead people you talked to were on your slab."

"You've been resurrected, it's a miracle. Didn't even take you two days, beat both Lazarus and Jesus," she said, letting the moment pass because she got the feeling there was something really big there, too big for something so silly as a joke taken to the extreme.

"Oh good, I was afraid I'd have to get out the Ouija board to ask you for a cup of tea. May I have a cup of tea?"

"I suppose. Going to make myself a sandwich for dinner, do you want one of those, too?" It was an olive branch, of sorts.

"I should have time before I need to head out again. Thank you. And cut it on the diagonal this time, cutting it vertically is just weird."

_Here we go again_ , Molly thought. It was what had started the whole thing in the first place. 


	60. "Stop questioning my life choices."/ "When’s the last time you smiled?"/ "Sometimes I just don’t want to exist."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by bkst-tutu1b: For the 4\3rd rond drabble challenge: 16 (Stop questioning my life choices.), 20 (When’s the last time you smiled?) or 27 (Sometimes I just don’t want to exist) please? I'm immensely enjoying your ficlet feast! [A/N: I edited out part of this ask because it mentioned a site that AO3 doesn't acknowledge due to their own legal reasons; I didn't want the while fic to get somehow flagged or deleted just in case.]
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73, 54, 89, 26, 32, 71, 16, 20, 27  
> Yet to be filled: 45, 57, 89, 32, 27, 57, 6, 2, 70, 5, 7, 93

"For the love of _God_ , would you just take a case already? Or, I mean, at least put clothes on."

"I have clothes on."

"A blanket doesn't count as clothes, even if it's fashioned into a toga. You look like the world's most fabulous caveman," Molly said, flicking the corner of the hot pink tiger-stripe blanket as she took the spot next to him on the sofa.

"I'm wearing pants," Sherlock argued.

"Oh my, what's the occasion?"

"I always wear pants in your flat."

"No you _really_ don't."

"Well, not to _sleep_. Sleeping naked is better for health, you're a doctor, you should know this."

"I went to actual medical school, I didn't get my degree from _Cosmo_ , thank you."

"It's your skin, you do what you want with it. If you want to miss out on the benefits of reduced cortisol levels and higher levels of human growth hormone and oxytocin, that's completely your prerogative. Don't come crying to me when you look like a pair of old riding boots by the time you're sixty," he sniffed.

_Says the man who looks like a pair of old riding boots_ _ **now**_ , she thought. She wouldn't say that, though; he might decide to send a woodsman after her to cut out her heart and she really didn't want to end up with seven tiny flatmates. Just the one oversized one was enough.

"You really do need to do something. Get out of the flat, go for a walk, anything." _Try going back to your own flat_...

"There's nothing for me out there. Everything I need is right here, and for the rest I've got various internet-based delivery services. And you," he added as an afterthought.

"How flattering," she said lightly. "You're wearing a dent into my sofa cushions, you haven't shaved, you haven't eaten a vegetable in over a week. When's the last time you smiled?"

"1993. I saw a seagull steal a biscuit from a toddler. Such a fond memory."

At least he was still making jokes. The depression/ boredom/ existential crisis alert didn't need to be raised to red just yet.

*

"Tangy cheese Doritos and melted chocolate ice cream. That's your breakfast?" she asked, looking over his shoulder as she walked past the sofa. At least he was in a slightly different position than the day before.

"Stop questioning my life choices. I don't make a fuss about your oat straw and poison-berry porridge."

"They're goji berries, and they're full of antioxidants. So, while your skin may be fresh and dewy as a cherub's arse when you're a pensioner, I'll have the cell health of a teenager. Unlike you, whose entire gastrointestinal tract will be made of MSG molecules stuck together with cholesterol."

"I can still say with some authority that they taste like poison."

"Okay, yes, fine, they taste like poison. But they aren't actually poison."

"Famous last words."

"Whose last words?" she asked cynically. She was pretty sure she made one of Sherlock's own faces back at him.

"Rasputin, Emperor Charles VI, one of the popes, Johan Schobert, Alan Turning, the 900 or so people at Jonestown..."

"And yet you don't even know who the PM is."

"I didn't vote for them so it doesn't matter."

"Do you even vote?"

"Of course I do. I vote for myself as a write-in."

"You know that's not actually a thing here."

"I'm making it a thing."

She held eye contact with him for one very long moment, then went to get herself coffee. _It's way too early for this_ , she thought.

*

She came home to find Sherlock lying flat on her kitchen floor, looking up at the ceiling. She stifled the urge to fuss over him and ask if he was alright; he wasn't lying there like he'd collapsed or anything, more like he was quietly waiting for the planet to get bulldozed by aliens.

"Just couldn't get the hang of Thursdays, huh?" she asked, stepping over him to get to the sink.

"Everything is tedious. Sometimes I just don’t want to exist."

She would be more worried, but at least he was dressed. And he'd shaved.

"Did you at least go outside today? You're going to get rickets at this rate."

"You like bow-legged men anyway." He twisted his head around to look at her.

"I like _Jensen Ackles_. It's not just about the legs, he's the total package." How did he even know that, anyway? She'd never said a word, and it wasn't like she had anything incriminating in her browser history.

"I _am_ right here, you know," Sherlock said, sounding genuinely miffed. Like he actually cared if she found other men attractive. Which he probably did, because heaven forbid he wasn't first on every list.

"Yes, you are, and you're in the way of the fridge," she said, nudging his waist with the instep of her foot.

He rolled to the side and sprang up, then wavered on his feet for a second.

"How long have you been lying there?"

"Four... ish? hours? I watched the news, then some programme about holiday getaways, then I ate some of your not-poison berries in the hope that they were actually poison, then I was going to make tea but I really didn't see the point, since we're out of milk."

"You could have gone to buy some."

He looked at her blankly.

"Or ordered it online and had it delivered."

"My phone was in my pocket. Seemed like more trouble than it was worth to get it out."

"At least you got dressed today. Why _did_ you get dressed today?"

"Because you nagged me into it yesterday. I can get undressed again, if you prefer."

She was certain that if there was a God, he/she/it was testing her.

"Lestrade phoned this morning. He said he might have a case but I haven't heard back from him, so he must have solved it. Or got lost in the Met office on his way back from the toilet."

That was a good sign. A very good sign.

"Does he know you're here?"

" _No_ ," he said, like it was the stupidest question in his very extensive history of being asked stupid questions. "Why would I tell _him_ that? Nobody knows I'm here. Mrs. Hudson thinks I spend half my time behind the clock face of Big Ben."

"Do you think he went to Baker Street?"

"He would have phoned when he realized I wasn't there."

"And your phone was in your dressing gown pocket."

"Yes."

"Just putting this out there, but have you checked it at all since you lost your will to live in the middle of my kitchen?"

"No, why would I?" he asked, pulling out his phone. "Huh. How did I miss that?"

"You fell asleep, didn't you?"

" _Maybe_ ," he admitted reluctantly.

"You never hear your phone when you're asleep."

"Yes I do." He scowled at her before looking back down at his phone. "Oh," he said softly, in that way that indicated something had piqued his interest.

"You sure don't," she said, but it was lost on him.

His fingers flew over the screen and then his eyes got that gleam; _thank God_ , she thought.

"Oh," he repeated a little more excitedly. He shook off his dressing gown and let it drop to the floor without looking up, the small smile playing around his lips blooming into a full grin. "Oh, this could be good. Don't wait up!"

He bent to give her a peck on the cheek and hit the corner of her mouth; time seemed to stop as his lips lingered partway on hers. Then he straightened and whirled away like he always did without a word of apology or acknowledgement of how awkward everything just got.

At least he wasn't still moping on her sofa.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I’m pretty sure I lifted the riding boots line and the seagull thing from somewhere, but I can’t remember where. I do this all the time, drives me up a wall. Just consider them a nod to something I thought was clever.]


	61. ""Look at them, their perfect tans and cold margaritas…assholes"/ "You asked me if unicorns were real"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by stlgeekgirl: For the asks, if you haven't already either 45 (Look at them, their perfect tans and cold margaritas…assholes) or 57 (You asked me if unicorns were real) from Prompt list 3. Honestly, finding out you updated a chapter in Ficlet Cemetery is a bright spot in my day. Thank you! 
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73, 54, 89, 26, 32, 71, 16, 20, 27, 45, 57  
> Yet to be filled: 89, 32, 27, 57, 6, 2, 70, 5, 7, 93, 9, 14, 15, 42, 43, 102, 107, 44, 64, 102
> 
> Set in the 'Make Mine A Double (Date)' 'verse [chapters 33, 37, 56]

"And so, while we're playing cards in the 'man cave'—"

"Did you just actually use air quotes? Unironically?" Molly asked.

Sherlock scowled and continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, "You two will be in the lounge with the other wives having some kind of... party." He wiggled his fingers.

"What kind of party?"

"I don't know, Tupperware, Avon, something like that."

"Oh God I hate those things. I always buy something I don't need because I feel like I have to. I've got so much junk from Jamie at Home—I bought a tagine once. I have no idea how to use it, or what to even put in it," Molly said, checking her hair and make-up in her compact mirror once more to make sure she looked suitably suburban as John parked the car.

*

"Yeah, that's not Tupperware," Mary said, eyeing the table full of sex toys and lingerie.

"More fun than one of those nail wrap parties, though," Molly said. She'd only ever been to one and had come away with a cuticle infection.

"Ugh, look at them, their perfect tans and cold margaritas… Arseholes," Mary said, taking in the group of posh commuters' wives.

"Free booze," Molly shrugged, looking around for whoever was handing out the drinks.

*

"Alright, ladies, it's time for some games!" their host enthused, holding up a giant pair of granny pants and a pack of balloons.

 _At least there are nibbles_ , Molly thought.

*

"Oh, don't bother buying a riding crop, you can just borrow Sherlock's. Remind me when we get back to my flat, I'll fetch it for you," Molly said as Mary started to fill out her order form.

"He keeps a riding crop in your flat. Really should have known, it's always the quiet ones," Mary teased. "I bet he likes being tied up too, doesn't he?"

"Wouldn't know, actually, though I have a feeling I'd have to gag him just to get through it," Molly said.

Mary looked genuinely confused for a moment. "So you two really haven't?"

"No! Nooo," Molly answered. "Well, I mean, not _really_. Almost. That time with the brownie, but we didn't actually... _seal the deal_."

"Couldn't he...?" Mary made a slightly rude gesture with her finger.

"No, that wasn't the problem," Molly said, remembering exactly how much of a problem that really _wasn't_. His mouth wasn't the only thing about him that was big.

"So he finished the race before the starting gun? He does seem like the type."

"Not that, either. He licked my chest for a bit—and I mean licked, like he was trying to groom me like a cat—then got distracted by... I don't even remember, something—then he completely reorganized my wardrobe and all my drawers."

Mary didn't even try to stifle her laugh. "Wow."

"Yep," Molly said, tonguing the inside of her cheek and raising her eyebrows.

*

"Did you hear that?" Mary asked.

"That was a crash, wasn't it?"

"Think that's probably our cue."

"Maybe we can pretend we didn't hear it. It's my turn next and I think I figured out how to cheat if I take my shoes off and follow the line of the rug," Molly said, watching as the woman in front of her tried to pin the willy on Willy. Molly wondered where one could find a life-size poster of a naked man dressed as Kaiser Wilhelm II, complete with moustache and helmet.

And then there was another crash, like someone going through a table or a door.

"Yeah, that's us," Molly said, grabbing her handbag.

*

"Again?" she asked when Sherlock went to let himself in the car.

"Don't want to talk about it," he said. He had a bleeding lip and what was probably going to develop into a spectacular bruise on his jaw. "Though, I suppose if I were stuck in a dead-end job and exiled to the suburbs, I'd have a lot of pent-up aggression, too." He looked at John when he said it.

Molly wondered if he was trying to get punched again.

*

"Chocolate willy?" Molly asked, offering the box to Sherlock.

"Dark or milk?"

Mary snickered in the front seat.

"Fizzy."

He made a face, but fished one out of the box, wincing as he put it in his mouth.

Mary turned around. "That reminds me, I got you something," she said to Sherlock. She handed him a breast-shaped stress ball.

"Thank... you?" he said, taking the ball.

"So you can practice."

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"It was a booby prize," Molly said quickly, trying to distract him before he figured out she'd said something to Mary about what had happened. "She got it because she lost the how-many-marshmallows-can-you-fit-in-your-mouth game."

"Well, the one that won had a mouth like Mick Jagger. She probably could have picked up a bowling ball with her hands tied behind her back. Molly, show Sherlock what you got for winning the ring toss," Mary said, giving her her most evil smile.

 _Bitch_ , Molly thought good-naturedly.

"Really don't have to," he said. "But you're going to," he added as she dug around in her handbag.

"It glows in the dark," she said, holding up the ring toss dildo.

"Wh-why would it glow in the dark?" he asked, flustered.

"So you can find it, I guess? Or make the neighbours think you've got a strobe light in the bedroom," she said.

Sherlock looked confused until the penny dropped, then he just looked scandalized.

Molly, being the dork she was, held it up to her forehead. "Remember when you asked me if unicorns were real?" she joked.

He was momentarily at a loss for words; she got a look from Mary that was the equivalent of a fist bump. "I-wh—I didn't ask you that," he finally managed.

"You did, that night after the concert. You went on about it for like twenty minutes. Keratinous carcinoma on wild asses in India, some kind of rhino in Siberia, the prehistoric psychedelic experience and mythology and the collective unconscious..."

"I'll take your word for it. If you could put that away now, the people in the car next to us are staring to stare," he said, raising his eyebrows and clenching his jaw, hissing in pain immediately because he'd apparently already forgotten he'd got chinned.

*

"So, we uh, dropping you at Baker Street?" John asked Sherlock, still standing by the front door while he waited for Mary to come back from the loo. Molly had dug out the riding crop left it on the bed for Mary to secret away before Sherlock knew it was missing.

"Hm? No, I'll get a cab back later," he said, taking the frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel Molly handed him.

John eyed them both speculatively. He was about at subtle as a disco ball.

*

"What's that?" Sherlock asked as she slipped the tube of lube into her bedside table.

She'd really hoped it would go unnoticed or at least uncommented-upon; she wasn't embarrassed, really, she just didn't want him to think she was trying to push him into something. And she thought it would be a nice surprise for the first time anything happened. If it happened. Which wasn't looking likely that night, even if she always wanted to recreate that scene from the ship's cabin in _Raiders of the Lost Ark_.

"Just a thing I bought at the party. I had to buy _something_ , I felt bad because I knew we'd end up ruining the evening."

"A sex toy?" He wrinkled his nose.

" _No_ ," she said. "It's lube. And it cost £8, so you're not using it in any of your experiments."

"Is it made of panda tears? You can get a bottle twice that size for less than £8 at any supermarket or chemist."

"It's flavoured."

"Why would it be fla—oh." He turned away, rapidly exchanging his shirt for the t-shirt he slept in.

"You want to try it?" she blurted. "I mean, just on your finger or whatever. It's supposed to taste like candy floss," she back-pedalled.

He looked at her for a few very long seconds. "Oh...kay?" he said, really more a question than an answer.

She got out the tube again and popped the cap, squeezing some onto her own finger, which she stupidly held out to him instead of the tube because she was apparently brain damaged or dyslexic. She realized her mistake and started to let her hand drop, but he caught her wrist and brought her finger to his mouth.

Her brain went offline as his lips closed over her finger and his tongue swiped over her fingertip; he looked her right in the eye as he did it, too. He applied the slightest bit of suction as he pulled off. He knew what he was doing, the tit. She wondered if she could somehow surreptitiously change into a fresh pair of pants, as hers were suddenly rather damp.

"Don't know what I was expecting, exactly, but that was about it. I suppose it remains to be seen if it's worth eight quid," he said, arching an eyebrow before he went to his side of the bed to finish changing into his pyjamas.

Was that...? Did he just...?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW WITH FANART <3: https://unefleurmorte.tumblr.com/post/163684140678/ficlet-cemetary-chapter-61-look-at-them


	62. "Are you drunk?"/ "He would have really loved that…"/ "He used to be my best friend."/ "If I could go back, I wouldn’t change anything"/ "Buy me chocolates and tell me everything’s going to be okay"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by rainmyselfinharmony: How about 89(Are you drunk?) and 32 (He would have really loved that…) from Drabble challenge meme? I'm in love with all the universes! I have a soft spot for ‘Sherlock Holmes is an Alien’ verse though. This is me being annoying, just ignore me and write your thing. :D   
> and: 44 (He used to be my best friend.), 64 (If I could go back, I wouldn’t change anything) and 102 (Buy me chocolates and tell me everything’s going to be okay) from drabble ask meme please. :) Thank you!! 
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73, 54, 89, 26, 32, 71, 16, 20, 27, 45, 57, 89, 32, 44, 64, 102  
> Yet to be filled: 27, 57, 6, 2, 70, 5, 7, 93, 9, 14, 15, 42, 43, 102, 107
> 
> Okay, so I ended up using both the original prompts, which were already used before, and the new ones picked by rainmyselfinharmony. I changed 'he' to 'she' because I had an idea. Sherlock-Is-An-Alien 'verse; not so much crack as fluff and a little angst. And kind of boring, because I'm pants at exposition when it comes to worldbuilding. I have way too much backstory in my head for all of this.

"Are you drunk?" Molly asked, taking in the sorry sight before her.

"Maybe? Drunk is such an imprecise term. Your language is so _vague_ and full of... _feelings_... and _impressions_. You'll never get off this rock until you embrace scientific imperialism as a complete... _thing_. Paradigm," he said, sitting up in his chair before slumping back into it.

"Oh-kay," Molly said, shaking off her coat. "I'll just make you some coffee then?"

"Coffee doesn't actually—"

"Placebo effect."

He hummed, either an agreement or a dismissal, who knew. She figured she'd make him the coffee anyway.

"So why are you drunk?"

"Told John about the baby and he insisted on taking me to the pub. Greg was there. And Mycroft. I think they're shagging. Can't be sure, though, might have just eaten eclairs together, which is close enough to shagging anyway."

"Uh huh. And what about the other thing?"

"What other thing?"

"The thing about you being from somewhere that's not Earth?"

"Shhh!"

"It's after nine, Mrs. Hudson is either already baked or off with Mr. Chatterjee. No one's going to find out about your secret identity, Clark Kent."

"Who?"

"Nevermind."

Sherlock fell quiet, either dozing or contemplating something, while Molly finished the coffee. Decaf, because if she had to suffer, so did he.

"I want chocolates. Buy me chocolates and tell me everything’s going to be okay."

"Wh...hyy would I need to tell you everything's okay?" she asked, bending over him to set his mug on the side table. "What did you do?"

"Ejaculated close enough to your cervix that one lucky sperm cell was able to make it to the egg in your fallopian tube, thereby impregnating you. Or did you forget already?"

"So you're having a freak-out about being a dad?"

"John just kept going on and on about how great it is, watching them grow and knowing you'd made something so wonderful, but it's all bollocks. It doesn't matter what anyone does, they always get something wrong. Look at Mycroft. You've met his parents, they're practically saints!"

"What about your parents? Your real ones?" Molly asked. They hadn't really talked a lot about any of it; Sherlock always found a way of avoiding real answers to her questions, except when it was something to do with the actual biology of his species and how it might affect Marvin (which she was told not to call the baby because _our child is not a_ _ **cartoon**_ _, Molly, I'm not even_ _ **from**_ _Mars and I have no sense of humour_.)

"Don't have parents."

"So you were an orphan?"

"No, we just... don't have them. Once people in our society reach optimal sexual maturity, they make a contribution to a kind of collection centre. Then their DNA is paired off with the most suitable genetic match and the strongest embryos get incubated."

"Wow, eugenics. So you might have brothers and sisters? Are you raised together, or is it like _Brave New World_?"

"I don't know what that is," he said.

"It's a book. Maybe a film, too, I'm not really sure. Science fiction."

Sherlock made a noise. "Molly, almost everything your people call 'science' is fiction."

"Oh, why thank you," she said lightly.

"Not _you_. You're very good at... measuring... things. And identifying other things. It's not your fault your species only has the most rudimentary grasp of its own biology, you work with what you have," he said, making a genuine effort to compliment her.

She gave him a look and he stopped talking, proving that even he, who thought he knew everything, could learn. After a beat, she prompted, "So you were saying about your— family?" She didn't know if that was the word for it.

"Not exactly a family. We're raised in small groups of children of a similar age range and from related lineages, more or less like a nursery. Once physical and intellectual abilities, personalities, and proclivities start to emerge, we're split up and moved into specialized groups. A bit like your schools, actually, with houses and different academic tracks. And I do have one genetic sister, though the biological relationship is unimportant in our society. She used to be my best friend." Sherlock sounded quite sober then; she wondered if it was some alien metabolism thing or if he could control his state of inebriation or if he'd just been putting on a bit of a show. There was a hint of sadness there, too, she thought.

"Used to be?"

"We had a difference of opinion and now she's on a prison planet orbiting the event horizon of a black hole. Intergalactic SuperMax."

"Oh. So you put your sister in jail."

"No, she put herself in jail. She seized control of the interplanetary government for a time and in the process blew up two planets and made a third unfit for habitation for the next eight millennia," he said.

"Wow."

"She was always ambitious."

"So is that whole thing why you were exiled?"

"Exiled? Who said anything about exiled?" he said too quickly.

"You did, the night you told me about yourself and we found out about Marv—the baby."

"It wasn't so much as one isolated incident as a cumulative set of things. I didn't have anything to do with Eurus' coup, if that's what you're wondering. I was in a different solar system at the time. She's actually the one who sent Jim after me to bring me back. I wonder if she knows he went out with a bang. She would have really loved that…" he said, a wistful note to his voice.

Molly was beginning to think she might be carrying Rosemary's Baby.

"So your sister knew Jim? But I thought he was from a different planet."

"He was. Planets are like post codes to the rest of the galaxy. Honestly, calling Earth a backwater is a kindness."

"So we're a bunch of hicks."

"'Hicks' implies that you're simply a more rural part of a larger society. You're more like one of the last uncontacted tribes of the Amazon."

"Oh, how lucky of me, a simple savage, to have been impregnated by Dr. Livingstone himself," she muttered.

"That's rather reductive," Sherlock said, scowling. She wasn't sure if he meant towards himself, or towards the uncontacted Amazonians. Probably better to just let that one lie, lest her crazy half-alien baby hormones make her slightly homicidal.

Then something occurred to her as she remembered something he'd said a few minutes before.

"So you said you contribute genetic material... Does that mean you might already have other children out there?" She really didn't know how to feel about that.

"Nope. Optimal age for a woman is sometime in her early to mid-twenties, for a man it's between thirty-five and forty-five to ensure longevity, so I'm right on schedule. Too young when I left to make my contribution, though I expect they'd have skimmed me out of the gene pool anyway. I suppose it's possible I'm an uncle, though, as far as that goes."

"You weren't trying to get me pregnant, were you? As an experiment?" She tried not to let the sudden anger she felt come through in her voice. She failed.

"No, of course not. You're my friend. More than a friend. Girlfriend, lover, partner, paramour, beloved, whatever. Not really my area, at least up until recently," he said, dead-sober.

_Beloved_ , she thought. Did that mean...? She couldn't bring herself to ask. She made a non-committal noise and went to take her mug back to the kitchen.

*

Sherlock lay with his face pressed to her belly, his hand resting on her hip. He did that a lot, sometimes when they weren't even in bed.

"Are you communicating telepathically with the baby?" she asked. The question was only half in jest; there was still so much she didn't know about him. About _them_ , she supposed.

"Uh, no," he said shortly. He didn't offer any further explanation or make some kind of sarcastic remark about her telly-watching habits.

"Sherlock," she began after the silence dragged on, "do you hate it here?" It had been a weird night and she was in a weird mood. She didn't know what she was saying or why she was saying it, really.

"It's not where I thought I'd end up and, as far as assignments go, it certainly leaves a lot to be desired, but even if I had it to do all over again, even if I could go back, I wouldn’t change anything," he said, turning his face and pressing a kiss to her stomach.

It was so oddly tender that she felt herself getting choked up over it; she blamed the hormones. She ran her fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck and tried not to let herself think too much about how impossible it all seemed.

 


	63. "Sometimes I just don’t want to exist"/ "You asked me if unicorns were real"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anonymous (but probably Ellis_Hendricks here on AO3): Hi there! Could you possibly turn your considerable talents to prompts 27 and 57, please? (if nobody has got in ahead of me!) Tom-verse if possible, but I'm happy to leave the artistic decisions to the artist :-) Ellis 
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73, 54, 89, 26, 32, 71, 16, 20, 27, 45, 57, 89, 32, 44, 64, 102, 27, 57  
> Yet to be filled: 6, 2, 70, 5, 7, 93, 9, 14, 15, 42, 43, 102, 107 
> 
> I tried for Tom-verse, but I just couldn't make anything fit (though, I mean, if you squint, it could maybe fit in there before the first ficlet in the series). Sorry! For some reason the unicorn prompt just tripped me up (I'm even reusing a bit I had written and scrapped for the other one because I'm just coming up empty). I'm so off my comedy game and all aboard the train to angstville, apparently. Also, just pretend the chronology fits with the actual timeline of the show and Surrey has the year-round summer of LA.

"Did you ever wonder if unicorns were real? Like one horse somewhere in prehistory with some kind of keratinous carcinoma or something that started it all?" Molly said, staring at the 14th century 'unicorn' horn (that of a narwhal, most likely) mounted on the wall of the study.

"Probably something along those lines, could have been an oryx or a rhino that someone saw while in an altered state. Between ergot, mushrooms, natural fermentation, and all manner of disease and naturally-occurring poisons, added to the fact that there was no reliable way to record an experience, it's amazing we as a species ever came to any consensus about the nature of reality," Sherlock said as he searched the club treasurer's desk.

"Say that at a physics conference sometime," she said.

Office supplies, sweets, nail clippers, cap for a memory stick but no memory stick (bugger), sticky note with password to company server (P@55vv0rd, how clever), deck of naughty playing cards (didn't even know they still made those); nothing useful. Bollocks.

"When have you ever been to a physics conference?" He paused in his search.

"Never. But I've heard stories."

"When have you 'heard stories?'"

"An ex-boyfriend is a theoretical physicist. That one was more schizoid than sociopath, though."

Ugh. Another one. He wished she wouldn't talk about them. He'd much rather pretend she wasn't an _actual_ woman and never had any boyfriends at all, for reasons he didn't care to examine at the moment. Or ever. He went back to rifling the drawer.

"Have you ever considered your time would be better spent by taking up a hobby instead of wasting it on relationships? Knitting, taxidermy, paragliding?"

"Sex is a hobby."

"Nymphomania isn't a hobby, it's an addiction."

"Well, what do you know, we have something in common," she said lightly and, in Sherlock's opinion, rather cruelly.

"Not an addict, I'm a user, there's a _difference_."

"And _I'm_ not a sex addict. Though, I mean, I'm not a _user_ , either, because that sounds like I'm just looking for a sugar daddy or something. I just like sex. A lot. I mean, we only get so much time, might as well enjoy it."

"Yet when I say that about any number of arbitrarily illegal substances, I get crucified."

"Well it's not like I'm going to suffer a collapsed vagina from repeated penetration, unlike a vein and a needle. Or, you know, literally die from too many orgasms."

He grunted as he popped the secret panel behind the drawer. He really hoped it wasn't booby trapped. Good thing she was being so annoying; if he started thinking about her vagina and repeated penetration he might get sidetracked.

*

"Is that his girlfriend or his daughter?" Molly muttered as she looked across the lawn to the pool.

Sherlock looked for himself; the client's midlife crisis girlfriend and either her sister or her friend (hard to tell, they both had the same dyed blonde hair and Instagram brows and noses picked from a book in a Czech bargain-basement plastic surgeon's office) were lounging in deck chairs. Nothing particularly striking about them; he wondered why she sounded a bit bitter. Wasn't like her. Best not to ask, he thought, lest he actually get an answer. Solving the case should cheer her up.

"Girlfriend. And she's got nothing to look forward to but a life of disappointment and melanoma. Come on, I want to check the groundskeeper's cottage before he gets back from shaving the topiaries or painting the grass green or whatever other crimes against nature these people feel the need to commit for the sake of appearances."

*

"Wow, is that...?"

"You asked me if unicorns were real. Apparently they are," he said as they approached the groom, busy saddling a white pony with a pink mane and a rather realistic horn somehow affixed to its head.

"Huh," Molly said. Then, as the pony lifted its tail and did what all animals do, "The internet lied. That was supposed to be a rainbow."

Sherlock smirked, then schooled his face before addressing the groom. Wouldn't do to look happy while questioning the main suspect.

*

"So the groom was actually the birth mother _and_ she was helping the ex-wife steal from the client? I will never understand rich people. Kinda sad for the little girl, though," Molly said, looking out the window of the train.

"Always is," he dismissed, but not rudely. He hoped.

"I mean, I kind of sympathize with the ex-wife, especially after seeing the girlfriend. A woman gets to a certain age and she's just... disposable."

He looked at her askance; that uncharacteristic note of bitterness was back in her voice again.

"Is this about Tom? You broke it off with him, why are you still upset over it?"

Surely a few months was more than enough time to get over him. She barely blinked before moving on from other boyfriends.

"It's not about _Tom_. Well, maybe some of it. I'm just tired of stupid men always coming out on top in these things."

"Hardly 'on top' in this case. His nine year old daughter already resents him, which is unlikely to change, he can't perform for his barely-legal fiancée—yes, I found a ring while looking for the memory stick—without the help of a little blue pill, and she'll take him to the cleaners in the divorce settlement within five years, provided his hypertension doesn't kill him first, at which point the daughter gets it all anyway. That is, if there's anything left by then. He has a mountain of debt and he's made nothing but poor investment choices since his ex-wife left."

"You know about investing? I thought you hated City boys and the entire concept of money."

"I know a bit. Mrs. Hudson knows more. She _did_ successfully launder the earnings of a not-insignificant drug cartel for the better part of twenty years."

The way Molly's lips pressed together and her eyebrows rose as she tipped her head indicated she really wasn't very surprised.

"Even so, 's still not fair, is it?"

"Very little ever is," he said.

He didn't like Molly being so pessimistic. It was out of place with the order of things. He'd much rather she talk at length and in great detail about her vagina and its numerous exploits if it meant she wasn't so... down.

"Sometimes I just don’t want to exist. It's still a man's world and being a single woman over thirty sucks."

Nothing he could really say to that without sounding like a complete arsehole. Just because he didn't voice any opinions on it didn't mean he was blind to the struggles competent women faced. Hell, he knew what it had done to his own mother, and she'd been relatively lucky in the stable, supportive partner area.

"Well, you've always got me?" he said, more in the form of a question than a statement. He squinted to make it look like he really wasn't sure if that was the correct protocol for offering support; he couldn't let her know he meant it so sincerely that he refused to think about the feelings it stirred and what that might mean.

She glanced at him with an expression on her face he couldn't read, then looked back out the window. "I suppose I could find a worse sidekick," she said after a few moments.

"Sidekick." He raised an eyebrow.

"Well, yeah, obviously. I did solve the case, after all."

"You didn't solve the case. You found the memory stick, and that was just dumb luck. _I_ solved the case. He made the check out to _me_."

"It wasn't dumb luck. I knew they had cats, and I know where toy-sized things end up when there's a cat around."

"Yes, and if you want a sidekick you should get another cat. I'll just be your... consultant."

"Consultant pain in my arse," she said, her lips twitching up a bit at the corner. It was a start.

"They say 'follow your bliss...'" he said lightly, which earned him one of those impish smirks that gave him a mild, almost pleasant form of indigestion.

 _Sidekick_. Honestly. Though he supposed there were worse fates than playing second fiddle to Molly Hooper.


	64. "You drank a gallon of milk over night"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by mizjoely: Oh, here's my prompt #6: You drank a gallon of milk over night 
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73, 54, 89, 26, 32, 71, 16, 20, 27, 45, 57, 89, 32, 44, 64, 102, 27, 57, 6  
> Yet to be filled: 2, 70, 5, 7, 93, 9, 14, 15, 42, 43, 102, 107 
> 
> Tom!verse; pure, unabashed fluff. I don't even know who I am anymore. (Also, these are scenes that span the pregnancy, so it doesn't fit very neatly in the chronology; some are before Janine's visit and the very last one is after, because reasons.)

"You drank a gallon of milk over night," she asked flatly. The space where her two bottles of milk had been were now empty. So much for that rice pudding she was going to make. And so much for breakfast.

"Drank? Not exactly."

"So it was for science." It was always for science, not 'I'm actually ten years old and do the first thing that strikes my fancy when I get bored,' even if that was the more accurate descriptor.

"No, it was for the long-term psychological well-being of our child."

"Wh—?"

"Fine," Sherlock groaned. "I wasn't going to mention it yet, but after you go back to work I'll be taking over most of the daytime care of the baby, which will include feedings. 'The breast is best' on a number of fronts past nutrition, including infant-parent bonding and brain development from holding a mother's gaze. Bottle-feeding is clearly the inferior choice, what with the potential for ingestion of air leading to a host of digestive issues, future orthodontic problems, what-have-you. So I've been looking into alternatives. I did some shopping and I've been road-testing."

"This is the slings and baby carriers all over again, isn't it? Just attach a bottle to the side of his cot like in a pet store, he'll be perfectly fine," Molly said, looking morosely at her dry, tasteless muesli, made even more dry and tasteless by the lack of milk.

"And people think I'm the unfit one," Sherlock muttered. "When our child has a healthy spine and fully developed musculature, you'll be thanking me because we went with the mei tai instead of front-facing carry."

It was entirely too early to be having this conversation. Or any, really, especially with an up-all-night Sherlock who was obviously (enviably) caffeinated.

"So what were you road testing?"

"Harnesses that allow for the simulation of breast feeding."

 _Delightful_ , she thought. She should be more surprised, but at this point, she didn't think there was much that could surprise her. He would probably volunteer for an experimental uterine transplant to carry the next one himself if he could.

"Do you call it 'The Mannery Gland?'"

"That's not one of the brands I found, I suppose I'll have to look again later..." He frowned.

"It's from a film."

"Oh."

*

"I'm not doing pregnancy yoga with you."

"It's good for the mind as well as the body."

"Both of which are still just fine, thank you. I hate yoga. It's all bending... and uncontrollable rude sounds," she said, remembering the reason she quit her first (and only) yoga class years ago.

"Molly, I've already heard every rude sound you could possibly make."

"Trust me, you have not. It's like having my very own set of bagpipes between my legs. I'd rather keep some element of mystery to the relationship, at least until your screaming, fat-headed baby rips its way out of my vagina."

He looked at her in horror, affronted that she could describe their child thus. Then again, he wasn't the one with an angry bowling ball resting on his kidneys.

*

"I smell paint. Why do I smell paint?" Molly yelled from the door as soon as she walked in.

"Because I've been painting," Sherlock said, crossing from the kitchen to the lounge to greet her. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt like any other person, which was always a bizarre thing to see; of course he didn't have a single drop or splatter on him. It was like he was magnetized to repel dirt.

"Going to go out on a limb here and guess you finished the nursery. Which we haven't talked about at all."

"It's a surprise. So, surprise. Also, I packed you an overnight bag because we're sleeping at Baker Street tonight. These fumes probably aren't good for 2.0."

"Oh goodie. I love surprises," she said, following him up the stairs. "Aren't I supposed to be the one nesting?"

"That's late in the third trimester. And this isn't nesting, this is preparing. Better to do it now before we know the gender so the decor doesn't reflect our own inherent biases, no matter how unconscious they may be," he said, stopping outside the door. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

Sherlock grinned and swung the door wide to reveal—oh dear God. It was... she didn't even know what it was. Black, white, and red stripes and dots and geometric patterns spread over the walls with no real rhyme or reason; it made her eyes hurt and she wasn't even inside the room yet.

"So what do you think?"

"Are you trying to hide the baby from Nazi submarines?" she asked.

"Dazzle camouflage wasn't actually meant to hide, it only misled. Kind of hard to miss."

"And so is this paint job."

"This 'paint job' is to provide visual stimulation in the first few weeks of life, when a baby can only process high-contrast and the colour red, thus aiding bra—"

"—brain development. Yes. But no. I'm not sitting in this migraine-waiting-to-happen while nursing our son or daughter, you're repainting it."

"You can nurse in our room. Or on the sofa," he protested, deflated. He looked like she'd kicked his puppy.

She huffed a sigh. "Fine, you can keep an accent wall. Everything else gets repainted a colour we can both agree on."

"This is Rosie's nursery all over again," he said mostly to himself as he rolled his eyes looked away theatrically.

"There's nothing wrong with Rosie's nursery. Mary changed her mind about the fish, she's the Mum, she's allowed."

"That coral took me six hours, and then you just stencilled apples and birds all over it willy-nilly and topped it all off with some frankly alarming wall stickers."

"The stickers were a gift, she wanted to use them."

"They weren't a gift, they were a curse. What better way to instil coulrophobia?  I bet they came from Janine, probably some kind of revenge."

"Uh huh," Molly said. She paused a beat for dramatic effect (Sherlock was rubbing off on her, it seemed, though if he'd just done that in the first place they wouldn't even be there...). "So, DIY store at the weekend."

"If we must. At least that gives me time to pick out a new theme."

"Which we will both agree on before you buy so much as a mobile."

"Already have that."

She raised an eyebrow.

"...Which we can take back if you don't like. Dearest."

*

"...And if you'd've let me get a proper a cot instead of this flatpack abomination, we wouldn't have this problem," Sherlock said, ruffling his hair as he looked at the debris field in the (newly repainted) nursery. He was taking the fact that he'd been bested by IKEA entirely too hard.

"We're not spending £200 on a cot that can only be used for six months when Mary's already said we can use Rosie's Moses basket."

"Co-sleeping has been shown to—"

"I don't care. If nursing is a problem through the night, we'll keep the baby in bed with us. It's more practical to—"

"Yes, yes, _practical_. You sound like a Yorkshireman. When is Mary getting here?"

"Mary? Who said anything about Mary?"

"You phoned her, I assume, as she's the one that put all Rosie's things together."

"I helped."

"Yes, and your talent for handing over the correct screwdriver in a timely fashion is second to none. Mary?"

"Left twenty minutes ago. And she's bringing Rosie so you have something to do while the grown-ups work."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Sometimes I wonder why I fell in love with you."

Time stopped dead; he'd never said the L-word before. "You—you're in love with me?"

"Yeeeess..." he said as though she were a particularly dim child. "Why else do you think you ended up pregnant?"

"Because you're what some in the Old West might call a quick draw?"

He frowned, which turned into a scowl when he saw her get out her phone. "What are you doing?"

"Phoning Mary. Telling her to circle the street a few times. Your 'abbreviated stamina' is actually going to work for us this time. And, for the record, I love you, too," she said, stretching up to press a kiss to his lips before Mary answered her phone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Fun fact: Did you know that Elvira (ETA: I was wrong about it being Elvira, it was Casey Kasem's wife who was on Cheers. It's been almost 20 years, cut me some slack >.>) has her own line of cribs? I used to work at Burlington Coat Factory in the baby department, and we sold them. They are not cheap and they look like the kind of thing you'd see in a horror movie about rich people from the early 70s, all layers of poof and drape and ruffles and canopies. Google "Little Miss Liberty Cribs" if you want to see those affronts to good taste. Just thought I'd share that tidbit, it has no bearing on the story and certainly is not the crib Sherlock was trying to assemble.)


	65. "We’re going to freeze to death"/ "Call me that one more time, see what happens"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by biroba: Hey! Since you are still taking prompts, here it goes: 2. We’re going to freeze to death and 70. Call me that one more time, see what happens. Please! 
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73, 54, 89, 26, 32, 71, 16, 20, 27, 45, 57, 89, 32, 44, 64, 102, 27, 57, 6, 2, 70  
> Yet to be filled: 5, 7, 93, 9, 14, 15, 42, 43, 102, 107, 86, 96, 2, 14, 20, 21, 22, 94 
> 
> Set in the Vegas!Married 'verse.

"Loch Ness?"

Honestly, he didn't know why she insisted on repeating everything in the form of a question. "Yes."

"Did they hire you to find the monster?"

Sherlock gave her the blankest of looks. "An operator of one of the tour companies hired me to prevent a saboteur. They've been having trouble all around the Loch and this one has a film crew booked for next week."

"Oh." She sounded disappointed.

"So, what do you say, third honeymoon?" Maybe the third time would be the charm and they'd actually get to consummate the marriage this time. He suspected she was holding out on him because he had yet to get her stupid car fixed; she didn't seem to realize how delicate negotiations of favours could be sometimes. That, and the one mechanic who owed him something had gone to Bermuda a month ago and hadn't been heard from since. He couldn't tell her that, though; she'd probably think he'd got swallowed up by the Bermuda Triangle or some other nonsense. For a scientist, she was rather prone to delusion, their one... encounter in Nevada notwithstanding.

"Shh!" She looked around to make sure none of the lab techs heard.

"Oh right, it's a secret," Sherlock said, flaring his hands and bouncing around and making his eyes wide. With any other man she'd be parading around, _Oh, look, I have a boyfriend, isn't he so great_ and _I'm Molly Hooper, completely and utterly not single, totally off the market because I've got a boyfriend and we're having all the sex ever invented_. Mrs. Hudson was right about marriage changing people.

She gave him a Look and he rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything else because he'd made his point. Maybe he'd start wearing his wedding ring just to aggravate her. The contact dermatitis would be worth it.

"And John can't go because of the baby?"

"No, he just hates Scotland."

"Ah. Well, who doesn't? Even the Scottish think it's miserable."

*

"I don't think I've ever been on a plane that small before. Was it built by the Wright Brothers?" she grumbled, dragging her suitcase behind her. She stopped short and he almost tripped over her, busy as he was cancelling their return flight and securing a spot on the Caledonian Sleeper for the trip home. White-knuckling it in a crop-duster was not the kind of danger he enjoyed, thank you. "Tell me that's not our driver."

"I can, though I personally think a marriage is built on a strong foundation of trust, the cornerstone of which is honesty in all things," he said, taking in the client—or whomever the client had sent—standing in front of a van with a cartoon Loch Ness Monster on the side holding a ripped piece of cardboard that said SURELOCK HOOMES on it.

Eh. He'd seen worse. Usually only on coffee cups from Starbucks.

"He looks like Groundskeeper Willy. You think he brought us a haggis?"

"Hope not. I'd murder for a fried Mars Bar, though."

*

"Oh, and do keep an eye out for the White Lady. They say misfortune befalls whoever hears 'er wails," the innkeeper said, handing over the room key.

He made a mental note to check the room for hidden speakers, blacklights, and poorly-disguised secret passages.

"Is the ghost included in the room fee, or is it something we have to pay extra for?" He gave the woman behind the desk one of his plastic smiles and didn't wait for an answer before picking up his suitcase and heading for the stairs.

"Londoners. And they say _we're_ cheap," he heard her grumble as they walked away.

*

"Molly, quit moaning," he said, groping behind himself to give her a shake or a poke or something to wake her up. Honestly, he felt no sympathy for her, he told her not to eat that second mutton pie. His hand came into contact with her bum, and oh, that was nice.

"Get my car fixed first," she grumbled sleepily, the last word overlapping with another moan that most certainly didn't come from her. "Did you just...?"

"Wasn't me," he said, supremely annoyed that he'd missed something in his search.

"Do you think it's the White Lady?" she asked, pushing herself up on her elbows.

"Honestly Molly, you're woman of science."

"'There are more things in Heaven and Earth—'"

"Yes, yes, thank you Hamlet." The moaning turned to weeping. "Right, that's it," he said, throwing back the covers.

"What are you doing?"

"Finding those damn speakers. And then I'm taking them down to the front desk."

Molly groaned and flopped back onto her stomach, covering her head with the pillow.

*

"Oh! I see something! Binoculars!" Molly said, yanking him along with the binoculars around his neck closer to the side of the boat. They were supposed to be looking for places the saboteurs could moor a boat, but Molly had other ideas.

"Driftwood or wave?" he asked, bending closer than was strictly necessary to give the strap of the binoculars enough slack to let him breathe; he was sorely tempted to slip an arm around her waist under the pretence of helping her maintain her balance on the rolling seas (which, truthfully, was about as choppy as a bathtub).

"Driftwood," she said disappointedly after a few moments, letting the binoculars thud back against his chest.

He surreptitiously made another tick mark in his notebook as he gave the top of her head a little pat to console her.

Driftwood ||||

Wave ||

Reflection/ trick of light |||| ||

Animal |

Maybe she'd get lucky and spot a dead body; at least that would be interesting.

*

"So I guess I can cross 'low speed boat chase' off the bucket list," Molly joked, hunkered behind one of the vinyl-upholstered bench seats.

"Just keep your head down, darling. Don't give them a target," Sherlock said, pulling her head against his chest. It wasn't strictly necessary, but at least this way they wouldn't get a look at her face if they had binoculars.

"Why did you call me darling? You never call me darling. Is that some kind of code?"

Of course she'd have to ask stupid questions. "It's a term of endearment. Mary calls John darling."

"And we are not Mary and John."

"The dynamic is close enough. I'm the smart, deadly one and you're the short, doctor-y one."

"I can think of at least six different ways to kill you in the next 24 hours that no one would ever question as murder," she said. "And at least a dozen more when we get home."

"Now's not really the time for foreplay, darling."

"Call me that one more time, see what happens," she gritted out.

"Is that a threat or a promise, dar—" he didn't get to finish the thought as a stray shot apparently hit just the right spot on the tour boat's gas tank to make it explode.

*

"We're going to freeze to death," Molly after they'd struggled ashore. "Hypothermia, just like Dyatlov Pass. It's like some kind of crypid-hunter curse. Paradoxical undressing, you're doing it already!"

"Nothing paradoxical about it, my coat weighs more than you do now. Probably want to get rid of that jumper, yourse—"

"Do you hear that?" Molly froze.

Oh shit. He looked around for somewhere to take cover; their would-be killers were coming back to finish the job.

"Over there!" He pointed to what looked to be an archway carved into the bedrock under the castle, long over-grown with vines and brush.

*

Molly shouted as two red eyes glinted at them from the darkness. "It's real, I told you it's real," she said, clinging onto his arm while leaning closer to get a better look. He got the feeling it was less out of fear and more because she was ready to use him as a human shield/ monster snack if she had to.

"It's a prop," he said, holding the lighter (next time she complained about his smoking, he need only remind her that carrying it had saved her life) higher to reveal the faint outline of a metal framework with a (rather crudely) sculpted head.

"Is that a... submarine?" Molly asked, looking at the rusted heap at the centre of the cavern.

"Hardly surprising, considering the tourist industry," he murmured, noticing the mouldering skeleton wearing what looked to be an old Royal Navy uniform in the driver's seat. Oh, what he wouldn't give to have a proper torch and dry clothing... He'd simply have to come back later. "Come on, I think that's probably a stairway that leads up to the castle."

*

"You were wrong. We're not going to freeze to death, we're going to die in a labyrinth underneath a castle in the Highlands," he said, completely unimpressed while looking at the point where the passage split in three directions. They all looked equally disused, no wear patterns on the floor or drafts or other signs to indicate which one led to the surface.

"Oh no, we'll still die of hypothermia long before hunger, thirst, or lack of oxygen gets us," Molly said. Stripping to their pants hadn't done much to provide warmth, but at least they were drier now. "If video games have taught me anything, one way leads to treasure, one way ends in a pit of certain death, and one is a shortcut to the surface. Go left."

"Left."

"People always go right because everyone's right-handed—"

"John—"

"Is a freak of nature. People always go right, so that one is the death pit, and the middle one seems like it would be too easy, so they ignore it because reverse psychology works, so it has to be the treasure. We go left and we get to the surface," she said, tugging him forward towards the left-hand path.

"I think my brain's already shutting down because that actually made some kind of sense," he said, then stopped when something wedged in a crack in the stone caught his eye.

*

"If only I had a working camera right now," Molly said, looking him up and down. On one hand, it was rather good luck they'd surfaced in the back of a storeroom underneath the castle's gift shop, because that meant they didn't have to wait any longer for warm, dry things to put on.

On the other hand, it was a gift shop in the _Scottish Highlands_ , so those warm, dry things consisted of argyle socks, kilts, Fair Isle jumpers and, of course, the ubiquitous novelty t-shirts. At least, for him; Molly was too small for most of what they had to offer, so she ended up in a plush one-piece Nessie pyjama-costume-thing. She wasn't the only one that wished for a working camera.

At least they didn't actually have to pay for it; the head of the museum seemed rather excited about the ring he'd found, something about the Knights Templar or somesuch, went on about it the whole way back to the inn as she gave them a lift.

*

"Am I supposed to pee in this now, or once I'm in the water?" Molly asked, doing a weird kind of interpretive dance, presumably to make the wetsuit more comfortable.

"Don't pee in it at all, it's a hire," he said. With any luck, he'd be the only one in the water this time; hers was just a precaution against another possible case of hypothermia. Not that he hadn't enjoyed sharing a tepid shower with her or the naked cuddle under the electric blanket that followed, but he'd rather repeat those experiences when they weren't flirting with multiple organ failure. And maybe when his external genitalia didn't look like someone had aimed a cartoon shrink-ray at it.

*

"Well, I think that should about do it," he said once he'd removed the mouthpiece and taken off the mask. The saboteurs would be in for a nasty surprise when they tried to abscond in their boat come the dawn, and they'd be met with a fleet of the remaining tour boats if they tried to swim for it. The mastermind of the original insurance scam was already in police custody.

Molly started the boat (and really, he'd have to find out where, exactly, she'd learned how to handle one, probably from an ex-boyfriend or something tedious, considering she'd grown up inland) and he began to get himself out of the scuba apparatus. A soft splash off to his right caught his attention and he turned his head, already on guard in case they weren't as in the clear as he thought they'd been.

He blinked, his brain obviously not correctly processing the information his eyes were sending it. A long, slender neck with a head the size of a rugby ball rose from the water at the side of the boat; it turned its face first one way, then the other to look at him. The glowing red eyes on either side of its head were like a rabbit and probably afforded it both low-light and panoramic visio—what was he saying?! It was obviously another prop, one of the other boat captains taking the piss, probably testing something for the film crew that was due to show in a few days' time. He took a step closer and peered at it, trying to determine if it was made of foam rubber or silicone, where the mechanical points of articulation were, listening for hidden motors; truly, it looked to be a marvel of craftmanship even in the low light of dusk. It even _smelled_ like an animal.

He reached out to touch it and it reared back, nearly tipping the boat and sending him sprawling in the process. He looked to Molly, clinging desperately to the wheel inside the cabin, then sprang up to look around for evidence of another submersible.

"Just a wave," he said out loud, trying to reassure Molly. Well, mostly himself.

*

"Thought you were dying for one of these," Molly said from where she was reclined on the bed in just a dressing gown. She held the fried Mars Bar out to him when he sat next to her to take off his shoes.

"Not feeling very hungry, thank you," he said, taking note of the pale expanse of her thigh, but still too shaken by the experience on the boat to attempt anything.

"Didn't think you were the type to get seasick," she remarked before taking another bite, then making a noise as warm chocolate and nougat dribbled onto her chin.

He ignored it, and the way she gathered it with her fingertip and sucked it into her mouth. "You really didn't see anything?" he hedged.

"No! For the last time, I didn't drive us into a rock or a log or whatever it is you keep implying. I mean, I appreciate that you're trying to be nicer about things because we're married and... _staying_ that way... but really, it's the same as making an accusation, so next time you might as well just come out and say it."

He opened his mouth to refute her statement, but thought better of it; probably best to keep to himself what he'd seen. She'd most likely want to check his head for lumps or worse, start moping because she hadn't seen it. He would have his crisis of logic all on his own, quietly, in the shower. It was just a Baskerville situation; the explanation was there, he just needed to think through it.

Of course, no explanation was forthcoming; nothing had shown on the sonar and there had been no bubbles or other signs of... anything.

He stared at the ceiling long after Molly draped her very naked self over him and fell asleep (and he really wasn't sure which of them was more disappointed in his apparent lack of interest, but he was going to assume that he could back-burner getting her car fixed as a priority, now); the Loch Ness Monster wasn't real. And neither were ghosts, even if he hadn't found the damn speakers or the hidden projector that made the flickering woman by the window.

One thing was for certain: he was never taking another case in Scotland. And he was never taking Molly on another honeymoon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with fanart by the lovely bkst-tut1b: http://sunken-standard.tumblr.com/post/166269824330/bkst-tutu1b-to-sunken-standard-i-have-a-feeling 
> 
> (Sorry, I had to link my reblog because tumblr won't let me open the original post and I don't know, it happens sometimes and I'm sure it's user error but damned if I know what I'm doing wrong)


	66. "What do you mean you’re leaving?"/ "Please, I’m begging you."/ "I owe you what?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by an anon: Hello are you still taking requests? 5,7 and 93, please. Ignore this if you aren't :) thank you.
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73, 54, 89, 26, 32, 71, 16, 20, 27, 45, 57, 89, 32, 44, 64, 102, 27, 57, 6, 2, 70, 5, 7, 93  
> Yet to be filled: 9, 14, 15, 42, 43, 102, 107, 86, 96, 2, 14, 20, 21, 22, 94 
> 
> So this starts out one way, and then it took a turn and I just... let it. Because life does that. And because I need to stop erasing and rewriting everything I put down. So yeah. It's not in any 'verse, though it could be a new one—Shit-We-Won't-Tell-The-Grandkids 'verse, maybe. I think this is the longest out of all of them so far, too.

"Sorry, I'll only be a second, I just need to grab a—is that my razor?" Molly stopped short before she got to the medicine cabinet.

"Well I was hardly going to ruin mine just for my legs. The blades cost £4 each. You're dripping, by the way."

"Bollocks," she said, putting her hand over the sink while she opened the medicine cabinet. She really should keep plasters downstairs in the kitchen, since that was where most of the injuries in her flat occurred (very few of them actually hers), but it just felt weird and wrong to do that.

She heard the sounds of Sherlock getting out of the bath behind her and clamped down on the urge to look; she'd seen him naked a million times before (she was a _doctor_ , not a _woman_ , and modesty was for other people anyway) but never with shaved legs and she was a bit curious if he'd gone any higher. She was really a terrible person.

"Why are you bleeding so much? Did you hit an artery?" he asked, peering down at her hand.

"No, but I did take off part of my thumbnail with the cheese grater. Don't worry, I picked it out of the cheese, so no one's getting any surprises on their pizza."

"Shame, it'd be a bit like finding _la fève_ in a King cake."

"King cake." It rang a bell, but wasn't something she could ever recall having.

"Mm. French thing, for Lent. They put a figurine inside a cake and whoever's lucky enough to find it gets to be king for the day. Hardly worth the dental work, but that's the French for you."

"Ah. So was that for some case in France?" she asked, watching the blood swirl down the drain as she washed the wound. She always thought it looked pretty. _And that's why they don't let you out of the morgue_ , she thought to herself.

"No, family. Fully one quarter French on my Mum's side. And Catholic, to boot."

She turned to him with an expression of mock-appal. "A Papist? The horror."

He smiled softly as he looked down at the plaster he'd grabbed, peeling the paper tabs off the sticky part. "I was even baptized Catholic, as far as that goes. And I can say the Rosary in seven different languages. Came in surprisingly handy when I was in Eastern Europe." He used gauze to dab away the blood that continued to well up from the wound, then gently applied the plaster.

Her breath caught at the weird, casual intimacy of the moment; she wasn't used to being the one patched up and if she did need it, she always just did it herself. She sought desperately to cover the things it was pulling out of her; she was afraid she might do something stupid like kiss him. "So why were you shaving your legs?" she blurted.

"Why do you shave yours? I like the smoothness," he said with a straight face, then cracked into a smile. "It's for a client."

"What are you, _Pretty Woman_?"

"That remains to be seen, but one hopes. When's the last time you've been to a drag show?"

"Why would you assume I've ever been to a drag show?"

"Jim Moriarty, with whom you watched _Glee_ , was your boyfriend _and_ you've gone to three gay weddings in the time I've known you. Your femininity and sexuality are completely non-threatening and, work attire aside, you've got a strong sense of personal style. Of course you've been to drag shows. Also, I'm going to need help doing my make-up."

The desire to kiss him evaporated and was replaced with the desire to throttle him instead. She settled for a scowl.

*

"Well, I mean, Cher _is_ kind of a cliche," Molly said, following him to the bar.

"I don't even know who Cher is," he complained, gesturing to the bartender to get his attention.

"Of course you don't. Have you never been to a fancy dress party? There's always that one couple that goes as Sonny and Cher because it's 'retro.' Though, I mean, more in the 90s than now, but old people still do it."

"Wouldn't know, I delete all traumatic experiences."

She rolled her eyes and ordered herself a double bourbon on the rocks and got Sherlock something neon pink with a crazy straw. He might delete it later, but she was going to enjoy _that_ memory for a long time.

"Molly?! Molly Hooper?!" One of Beyoncé's back-up dancers appeared at her elbow. "I knew it was you! I'd never forget that nose!"

She struggled for a second to place the voice with a name, and then it hit her. "Bassie! How _are_ you?" she gushed, a reflex. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Oh, right, Sher—Shireen, Bassie, Bassie, Shireen. I used to go out with his flatmate _Jim_ ," she said, lifting her eyebrows to emphasize. Sherlock stiffened next to her, then relaxed. After all, it was five years ago and Sebastian had been cleared of any involvement straight away, so it wasn't like he was any kind of threat.

Bassie put his hand to his ample bosom and made a sad face, obviously in memory of Jim, then reached out to her, eyes and mouth going wide. "Oh my God, though, do you _believe_ it? You _did_ hear about it, right?"

"Saw it in the paper. So sad," she said as convincingly as she could.

" _I_ think he's still out there somewhere. He always said he wanted to go to Thailand, I bet that's where he is."

Sherlock choked on his cocktail. She and Sherlock were two of the only three people alive that knew exactly where Jim Moriarty was, and it was definitely _not_ Thailand.

"I wish he'd call me, I'd fly out for drinks. Any excuse, yeah?" Bassie went on, then winked theatrically. "He was so down after you two split. Oh my God! Did you _know_?"

She tittered and sipped her drink, aware that Sherlock was watching her like a hawk. "Nope. Didn't even know he was gay, let alone a criminal mastermind, heh heh."

" _Gay_ ," Bassie rolled his eyes. "Jim was above labels. Unless it was Westwood or McQueen, I am I right?" He glanced behind the bar. "Got to dash, sweetie, I'm on again in ten with Lady HaHa and getting into the latex to be one of her little monsters is _murder_. Stick around til the end of the night. Please, I'm begging you. I'm doing 'This is My Life,' never a dry eye in the house, you'll die. Text me, we'll do drinks sometime."

He was gone with a flurry of air-kisses, leaving only a cloud of hairspray and Chanel in his wake.

"He's really not that campy in real life," she said. She remembered him as pretty reserved, actually.

Sherlock let the crazy straw drop from his lips, leaving a smudge of lipstick on the plastic. "Mm. Wouldn't imagine he'd get very far in civil engineering if he were. You never mentioned—"

"Isn't that your client over there?" she deflected, pointing to a random stranger. There was a lot she never mentioned about Jim, and it was going to stay that way.

"What? Where?"

*

"Oh bugger," she said when the song changed. It _was_ a drag club; it was bound to happen.

"What?" Sherlock asked, perking up, no doubt on guard for another surprise social interaction or something actually related to the case. "And why is everyone looking at me?"

"The song. It's _Cher_. It's like Rocky Horror, they always do something special for the virgins."

"How do they know I'm—"

She ignored him, swigging the rest of drink and slamming the glass down on the bar. "Alright, let's do this. You're going to owe me." She took Sherlock's wrist and pulled him into the middle of the dance floor. She wouldn't be any kind of assistant if she let his cover get blown because he was a complete knob that didn't know a single song written after 1920, with the exception of (and God only knew why) Ringo Starr's discography. Besides, standing around all night in a club full of good-looking, well-groomed men that _wouldn't_ grope her or press their awkward boners into her arse was just a wasted opportunity. She'd drink away her embarrassment later.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

"It's not what _I'm_ doing, it's what _you're_ doing. This song is for _you_. Start dancing and act like you're having a good time," she shouted into his ear before she let go of him and went for it.

She felt like the hero in an action movie, running through no-man's land and drawing the bad guys' fire while the other part of the team did the thing to save the world. She channelled every liquor-soaked night out after a bad break-up that she could actually remember as she belted out the opening lines of 'Believe,' using Sherlock as her prop, dancing against him and singing to him and oh God there really wasn't enough booze in the world for this.

And then nothing in the world made sense because he started dancing. With the music. And lip-syncing. Perfectly; well-rehearsed.

Oh, she was going to _kill_ that prick. He did things like this to John all the time (and sometimes Mary, and Greg once or twice, and his brother whenever he possibly could), the tit, but she thought she had some kind of... immunity from it. Sure, there was probably some reason he'd acted all clueless and then suddenly switched gears, the deception was all part of the plan, always was, but he could have at least trusted her for that bit like he normally did.

Suddenly the music and dancing and the whole novelty of a case in a drag club didn't seem quite as fun and exciting as it did five minutes ago. She powered through the rest of the song anyway, dancing her way back to the edge of the floor and letting him have centre stage, just as he'd probably planned from the start.

She didn't know why she was hurt by it; it wasn't exactly a rational or proportionate response. Leaving was not a thing an adult woman would do, but she really didn't want to be there anymore. It wasn't like he really needed her for the case anyway, he could internalize his own executive functioning for once instead of making someone else do it.

And then he was suddenly in front of her, blocking her way to the front of the club. "Where are you going?"

"Should be fairly obvious. I'm leaving."

"What do you mean you’re leaving? Are you not feeling well?" He reached out to touch her forehead and she batted his hand away.

"I'm feeling fine. Next time maybe—" she cut herself off, pressed her lips together. She didn't want to have to shout over the music to explain it to him. It wasn't worth it.

"Next time what?"

"Just, finish your thing here," she said, then walked away. She was only a little let down (though not surprised) when he didn't follow after her.

*

"Really hoped you'd make more of a scene," Sherlock said breezily, coming to stand beside her at the bus stop. She'd only been there a few minutes, though she had taken her time getting there. She needed the air to clear her head.

"What are you talking about?"

"When I humiliated you on the dance floor. Thought you'd have a stronger reaction." He winced as he pulled off his wig, pins catching in his hair.

She had a feeling she was about to have that stronger reaction with whatever he said next. "So it _was_ all part of your plan."

"Obviously. Really though, I can't believe you thought I didn't know who Cher is. If I can identify a gay man by his underwear, it's a safe bet I know a bit more about the culture."

Wait, was he trying to tell her something? Mrs. Hudson used to think— But Molly'd never got that vibe from him (then again, she hadn't got that vibe from Jim, and, well), and there was Irene Adler and the other one, and he'd never said anything in all the years he'd known her, but they didn't talk about those kinds of things—

"No, I'm not gay, you of all people should know that," he said, sounding slightly exasperated.

"Me, of all people," she echoed flatly. She felt like it was an insult of some kind and she wasn't sure why.

He looked at her like he was trying to figure something out, then looked away; she wasn't sure what was behind that. Whatever, it didn't change anything.

"So why couldn't you just tell me to 'make a scene' when you gave me a signal? I would have gone along with whatever."

"Because I really did need you to leave and I needed it to be authentic. Thought for a minute you weren't going to. Didn't have a plan B this time, either."

"Mm." She was beginning to understand why John reacted how he did sometimes. Right then, she really didn't care about the case. He'd obviously solved it, the side of good prevailed, hurray, and the only collateral damage was her trust. It was like he delighted in finding the most convoluted, idiotic ways to get from point A to point B sometimes and it didn't matter who was in the way.

"You're angry with me."

"Not really angry, no. Disappointed," she said truthfully. Sometimes she didn't even know why she invested the time in explaining and correcting his bad behaviour.

"And hurt." It was a question.

"A bit."

"I'm sorry." His voice was soft, sincere.

_You always are_ , she thought with an edge of bitterness. She shrugged. It was a stupid thing to be hurt over, anyway. She just needed a bit of time to get over it.

They stood in silence for another few moments, until Sherlock finally spoke again. "You said I would owe you. I owe you... what? Name it," he said quietly.

"Doesn't matter, it was just a thing I said. You don't owe me anything," she said just as quietly. She really just wanted to forget about it.

"I could put the wig back on and we could go to a different club. You like dancing," he offered. He was only half-joking, but she could tell by his voice that he realized this wasn't the kind of thing he could charm his way out of.

"Maybe some other time," she said, trying to keep her voice neutral.

"Would you—ever... want to? Go dancing. When it's not for a case. After you're finished being cross with me," he said, looking out into the street. He wasn't looking _at_ anything, he was just avoiding looking in her direction.

Any other time she'd wonder if she heard him correctly, or what kind of angle he was working; she had the thought that the timing was too bad for it to be anything but a sincere offer. And the way he asked wasn't the way he asked if she wanted to go grab something to eat after work or if she wanted to go with him to see this or that new exhibit at whatever museum or gallery. It was like he was afraid she'd say no and the rejection would actually _mean_ something.

"Like a date," she said. It was more of a question. She felt like an idiot for even asking, and maybe it was all just wishful thinking again like the time she'd misread things so badly before that party, but she couldn't help but feel like this time was different.

"You could call it that, I suppose. Wouldn't be inaccurate," he said, finally looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

Her pulse sped up and the part of her thumb she'd grated off throbbed uncomfortably; Sherlock was still mostly (absurdly) in drag and the night was muggy and the street smelled overwhelmingly of wee and spilled beer. It was about as far from 'fairytale' as one could get.

"After I'm finished being cross with you. And you won't do anything like that again."

"I won't. I truly am sorry."

"I know."

They stood in awkward silence for another few moments until the bus turned the corner at the end of the street.

"You're not actually expecting me to take the bus all the way back to yours as a form of penance, are you?"

"Tempting, but no. You can use that magical cab-summoning superpower of yours any time now."

Sherlock gave her one of those soft, genuine smiles of his and, while making her stomach do the same little flip it always did, it made her giggle, too.

"I didn't even get to make any jokes about John Waters, RuPaul, or _Kinky Boots_. So many missed opportunities. Guess you'll just have to take another case that requires High Drag."

"Ah, no," he said, swinging his wig as they walked in the direction of the taxi rank.

"Can't blame a girl for trying," she said.

 


	67. "Is a chicken really a bird if they can’t fly?"/ "Fire! Fire! Fire!"/ "You watched 4 seasons today?"/ "This cost a thousand dollars?!"/ "Foreigners…pffft"/ "Buy me chocolates and tell me everything’s going to be okay"/ "This house isn’t even haunted"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by mychakk [I'm sorry I forgot]: Ok, I think I'll go with those numbers, feel free to combine them or do them alone or just pick one that fits your fancy anything for sure will make my day :) 9 (Is a chicken really a bird if they can’t fly?), 14 (Fire! Fire! Fire!), 15 (You watched 4 seasons today?), 42 (This cost a thousand dollars?!), 43 (Foreigners…pffft), 102 (Buy me chocolates and tell me everything’s going to be okay), 107 (This house isn’t even haunted) My top favourite 'verse is the Holmes Family Function (the best), Tom-verse and Vegas. But I'll love anyhting ;) Huge thank you :) looking forward to them :) 
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73, 54, 89, 26, 32, 71, 16, 20, 27, 45, 57, 89, 32, 44, 64, 102, 27, 57, 6, 2, 70, 5, 7, 93, 9, 14, 15, 42, 43, 102, 107  
> Yet to be filled: 86, 96, 2, 14, 20, 21, 22, 94 
> 
> Yeah, that's right, I used all 7. *Puts on Hammer pants* Bow to your sensei!

Molly walked into her lounge and screamed.

It wasn't as common an occurrence as one might think, even when taking into account that Sherlock Holmes had taken over her flat as an annex of his own a few years before; she was used to all manner of things greeting her at the door when she returned home from work. Two dogs (on separate occasions), a monitor lizard, a pathetic Sherlock covered in fly paper, a pathetic Sherlock covered in bee stings, a pathetic Sherlock covered in marmalade (as was half her kitchen that time, though she'd got a much nicer kettle and a new blender out of the deal, so she hadn't complained much), a shirtless Wiggins and Sherlock with a tattoo gun, The Night King himself (okay, yeah, just Mycroft, but with a codename like Iceman [which she wasn't supposed to know, but Sherlock also used her brain as an annex for things he didn't want to keep in his own] the comparison was just begging to be made), and now the corpse of Sherlock's ex-girlfriend in rigor on her sofa.

Except, no, that wasn't a corpse. It was a sex doll. Wearing one of Molly's cardigans and a pair of her pyjama bottoms.

She supposed it could be worse. It could be a sex doll that looked like one of _her_ exes.

"You're out of Fairy and if you have to use the loo, which you always do because apparently riding the bus is just too much excitement for you, don't look in the bathtub," Sherlock greeted as he tramped down the stairs to the kitchen. She added Marigolds to her mental shopping list as well, because he was wearing hers (and goggles, oh lovely) and she was sure she didn't want _that_ pair to ever be near anything that would ever be near food again.

"So, um... _Why_? And why is she wearing my clothing?"

"Really more of an 'it.' I had to put something on it, it was—" he wiggled his fingers "—weird, and wrapping it in a blanket made it weirder. If it makes you feel better, I used clean clothing so none of your DNA will accidentally be transferred."

"Wait, is this _evidence_? We talked about evidence in my flat."

"It's not evidence _per se_ , at least not in a criminal capacity. Well, it could be, should my client choose to press charges, but she won't, considering she's technically dead—"

"Your client," she said flatly.

"Whose name I can't reveal because I adhere to the strictest professional standards of confidentiality—"

"Oh for shit's sake, I know _who_ it is. Why is it _here_?"

"Mrs. Hudson would evict me if she saw it. And it is rather creepy in an uncanny valley sort of way. Its eyes close when you tilt it past a thirty degree angle and the mouth is, ah, motorized. Wiggins accidentally bumped the 'on' switch when we were carrying it inside and I've actually never heard a grown man scream like that before."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You're not keeping it here."

"It's only a few days, she's making shipping arrangements."

"Shipping arrangements."

"She said it would be a waste of a prop to destroy it entirely. She's ah, left me with the task of disposing of the... peripherals, though."

"Peripherals. Going to go out on a limb and guess that's what's in my bathtub."

"Yes."

"And you're cleaning them because...?"

"DNA," he said as though she were daft.

"Uh huh. I'm going upstairs because yes, fine, I actually do have to wee and it's not because the bus is exciting, it's because I time my last cup of coffee so I don't fall asleep on the way home and miss my stop and a side-effect is having a full bladder by the time I walk through the door. Whatever. When I come downstairs, you're explaining this to me from the beginning and leaving out no detail. Then we'll figure out what to do with your Stepford Girlfriend."

*

"So she has her face trademarked and copyrighted and all that stuff, and she sent you to fetch her intellectual property."

"More or less. There may or may not be multiple blackmail components."

"Oh even better. Did you shatter a few kneecaps just for fun, too?"

"What are you implying?"

"Nothing. I mean, I'm sure pimpin' ain't easy."

"So because I took on a case for someone in the sex industry I'm a pimp?" he asked slowly.

"You're actively helping a whore blackmail one of her clients, from whom you just stole a sex doll."

"That bears the exact likeness of my client and falls well outside the scope of her contract with the party I reclaimed the property from. Honestly, you're a feminist, you should be championing this. Imagine if Tom had a sex doll made that looked just like you."

Ugh, he had a point. Of course he had to go and _humanize_ Irene Adler.

"Fine," she relented. "But you really should wear the fur collar for your coat more often. Maybe put some bling on John's cane and start carrying that around when you wear the hat."

At least she could still amuse herself with that image.

*

"You're actually logging these?"

"She wants to know what he's been—ahem—using it for so she can charge him accordingly."

"I can think of a pretty short list of what he's been using it for," Molly said, fishing yet another of the doll's vagina inserts out of her tub. Which Sherlock was going to sanitize repeatedly before her next bath (the tub, not the vagina; those were about as clean as they'd ever get thanks to the boiling water and bleach).

"And I'll thank you to keep that list to yourself," Sherlock said, taking the insert and turning it around to look for the serial number. He was really putting on a good show of not being flustered, but the colour in his cheeks gave him away.

"Is this real human hair?" Molly asked, squinting down at the next piece. She was tempted to take her gloves off just to feel it, but then they'd have to re-sanitize it because he had some weird hang-up about DNA all of a sudden.

"Mmhmm. That one costs fourteen thousand Yen. A thousand pounds, give or take."

"This cost a thousand pounds?! A fake fanny? Wh—oh. Oh God, it's moving. It's moving and I don't know how I turned it on."

"How—?" he began, side-eyeing her. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, then put down the insert he'd been holding. "Oh for—give it here, there's got to be a switch somewhere."

She watched as he examined it from all angles, then started poking and prodding at it with his gloved fingers; she wasn't sure if it was sexy, absurd, or just weird, but she knew she was the one blushing now, too (which was ridiculous, considering how often she examined actual genitals belonging to an actual person in any given week). She thought she was going to choke on her own saliva when he used two fingers to check inside. She really hoped he didn't make that face when there was a real woman involved.

"I can't... I can't turn this off. I have no idea how to turn this off," he said, sounding like he couldn't believe what he was even saying.

"Batteries! Just take the batteries out!"

"I don't know where the compartment is."

"Google it."

"You google it, I've got my hands full of—thing."

"Maybe it's on a timer. Just put it in the box and maybe it'll stop on its own."

Sherlock shrugged and withdrew his fingers, then set the insert into the box.

"Oh God," he said, staring down into the box.

"What?"

"It set another one off. And there goes another, it's a chain reaction."

"It's just like in _The China Syndrome_ ," she said peering around him to look into the box, which had begun to vibrate its way across her bathroom floor.

"The what?"

"Have you never watched a film?"

He didn't dignify that with a response.

*

"I can still hear them," she said, looking up at the ceiling.

"I'm sure the batteries will die soon," he said, eyes on his phone as it moaned another text. It was beginning to sound like a bad porno soundtrack. "Ah, good. Her people will be here on Monday to properly crate it for its trip to Hong Kong. Which is not where she is, so just completely forget I said that."

"Today is Tuesday. This thing is going to be here a week?"

"Six days, yes."

"It's so creepy."

Sherlock tipped his head in agreement. "Trust me, it was worse when it was naked."

"Can't you at least move it somewhere?"

"It weighs eight stone, it's like moving a water heater."

"I want to watch telly and I don't want to sit next to it."

"Fine, _I'll_ sit next to it, you sit on the other side."

*

"Maybe if we just put a bag over its head," she said, leaning forward to look past Sherlock at the doll. He'd inched his way nearly into her lap, pressing her into the corner of the sofa like they were on a Twister ride over the course of the last half hour. She didn't mind, really, except for the doll being there.

*

"No, that's worse, take it off, it looks like a murder."

"You like murders," Sherlock said from just behind her.

"No, _you_ like murders. I like my _job_ , which is only tangential to actual murder."

"Potato, potato," he said. "What about a mask? You have one in the spare room from Mary's hen do."

"The one with the willy on it?"

"The one with the feathers," he said flatly. "It's bigger, it'll cover more of the face."

*

"Oh my God, that's horrifying. Why is that so horrifying? Take it off. Take it _off_."

"You take it off, you brought it into our house!" She realized too late the slip she'd just made. Thankfully, Sherlock didn't seem to notice, as he was tentatively sliding closer to the doll again to remove the mask. She didn't know why, but she kept expecting it to turn its head in her direction and start singing 'Non, je ne regrette rien' or some Marlene Dietrich song or something equally and unexpectedly creepy.

Sherlock used the back of a pen to flick the mask off the doll's face and they both relaxed a bit.

"Okay," he said. "I have an idea. What if we just put it in the corner where the lamp is that you never use? That entire corner is an oubliette, we'll just put it in your desk chair and wheel her over there for the rest of the week."

*

"Nope," she said simply, her hair standing on end.

"To be fair, I didn't say it was a good idea."

Sherlock's phone moaned a text and they both jumped.

"I'm never going to sleep again. This house isn’t even haunted! Or, it wasn't, until that thing showed up."

"You don't believe in ghosts."

"And you don't believe in wearing pants under pyjamas. What's your point?" she snapped. She wanted that thing gone.

Sherlock simply narrowed his eyes at her while pulling out his phone.

*

Molly hefted her overnight bag on her shoulder and Sherlock shifted the still-vibrating box of fannies as they waited by the kerb.

"Least it's not raining," Sherlock said conversationally.

*

"Is a chicken really a bird if they can’t fly?" Wiggins said, one hand on the wheel and the other out the window doing that uppy-downy swimmy thing people usually stopped doing once they were old enough to drive. "They're closer 'a dinosaurs anyway, I saw it on telly."

"They have feathers and beaks—taxonomically, they're birds. And chickens _can_ fly, only not very far," Sherlock said, bored. They were both stuffed into the back seat because there was a suspicious stain on the front passenger seat and neither of them wanted to sit there. The box of fannies was secure in the trunk.

"Did you know—"

"Oh God, here we go," Sherlock muttered.

"—some paleontologists stuck plungers on chickens' bums ta figure out how T. Rex walked?"

"I did not not know that," Molly said, because how else does one respond to that? It wouldn't be very polite to ask their driver, 'how many mushrooms _have_ you ingested today?'

"Spent'a day watchin' _Natural World_ , din't I? Last four series."

"You watched four series today?" Molly asked incredulously.

"Well, only'a ones wi' Sir David Attenborough. He's'a only one I really like."

 _Fair enough_ , she thought.

*

"I'm going to be deleting useless trivia of dubious accuracy for hours," Sherlock grumped while Wiggins filled the tank with petrol. "I'm going inside to get... Something, anything, I don't really care, I just don't want to be in the car any longer."

"Buy me chocolates. And tell me everything’s going to be okay. I mean, we're halfway to Slough with a box of sex toys in the boot and it's almost midnight and I'm pretty sure Wiggins is high."

"And somehow _I'm_ the dramatic one. Wiggins isn't high, that's just how he is. Everything is going to be fine, it's just a quick trip to an abandoned brickyard, we'll be back at Baker Street where there are no bloodthirsty _Maschinenmenschen_ waiting for us to fall asleep to murder us before you know it."

" _Maschinenmenschen_?"

"Now who's the one who's never seen a film?"

"Just go and buy me a bloody chocolate bar."

*

"So you keep an arsonist on retainer for special occasions?" she asked, watching as Sherlock situated the box in the centre of the hastily-constructed pyre.

" _Former_ arsonist. It was only once and he's a very successful builder now. Care to do the honours?" he asked, holding out a disposable lighter and a rolled-up copy of _The Sun_.

She took the newspaper and let Sherlock light it. "Oh! Fire! Fire! Fire!" she chanted as she bustled around the pile of cast-off wooden pallets and construction scraps, lighting the bits of cardboard sticking out here and there.

"So if we were just going to burn them, why did you bother cleaning them?"

"I was actually going to sell them on eBay. It seems he had some 'limited editions' and you wouldn't believe what they're worth. We're burning potentially £8000 or so."

"Are you _serious_? Why are we burning them? Is this some kind of ridiculously expensive catharsis?"

"Wh—catharsis?"

"Like, burning them in effigy. She was your ex-girlfriend. Or is this some kind of noble gesture, like, protecting her honour or something? So no one can defile her silicone bits."

"Noooo," Sherlock said slowly. "They're just extremely unsettling and I didn't want to leave them to roam about the flat like... demonic caterpillars in case they escaped their box. I'm beginning to suspect they're powered by nuclear fuel rods. Really, we should probably step back, actually. Or leave, and rather quickly, since the fire department is on its way. Run."

*

"I'll get Wiggins to help me move it tomorrow," Sherlock said after they were settled in his bed.

She'd never slept in his bed before. It was weird. He'd slept in hers dozens of times, and often those times overlapped with her own occupancy, but this was... weird. "Though you could just stay here for the rest of the week."

His suggestion was a bit too casual.

"You don't actually want to move it, do you?"

"It's very heavy. And unnerving. And I will deny that with my dying breath if you ever tell anyone I said that."

She couldn't help herself, she giggled. "Perish the thought. No one would ever believe me, anyway. Just like that time I met Bill Murray. Not John's friend Murray, _the_ Bill Murray. It was in an Indian takeaway in Hackney and he knew I recognized him and he just leaned into me and said, 'No one will ever believe you.' No one did, either. But it was him."

"Who's Bill Murray?"

"An American actor. _Caddyshack_ , _Ghostbus_ —"

"Foreigners…pffft. Boring."

"We really need to work on your cultural literacy," she said, then yawned.

"I've seen every film I'll ever need to, and for the rest, there's Wikipedia."

"We're watching _Groundhog Day_ tomorrow night."

"It's a punishment, isn't it?"

"Yes. You'll take it and you'll like it. Now go to sleep, I need to be up in four hours."

"Make it five. We'll take a cab. I need some teeth for an experiment I've been thinking about, tomorrow is as good a day as any to start it."

"I won't argue. Still can't believe we burned £8000 worth of fake fannies."

"I still can't believe they exploded like that. I should hope they come with warning labels on the package."

"Maybe that's part of the allure. Like playing penis Russian roulette."

"Molly."

"Hmm?"

"Go to sleep. And please never utter the phrase 'penis Russian roulette' again."

"You're no fun."

"I'm lots of fun. Tonight was fun."

"Yeah, it kind of was. Night."

"Night."

"Sherlock..."

"Hmm?"

"Are you sure we got rid of all of them? Did you, ah, remove whatever was in the doll before you dressed it?"

There was a beat of silence, then, "Bollocks."

 


	68. "You’re cute with glasses"/ "I could’ve gone pro"/ "When’s the last time you smiled?"/ "Stop being such a brat"/ "If I wanted one, I would have gotten it myself"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by mistykins06:Dear one. I'm incredibly late to the latest Drabble challenge so I shall throw 86 (You’re cute with glasses) and 96 (I could’ve gone pro) at you to do with what you will. Love, Mistykins06   
> Requested by mizjoely: If you're still taking prompts, 20, 21 & 22 would be fab (together, apart, whatever floats your boat!) - When’s the last time you smiled?/ Stop being such a brat/ If I wanted one, I would have gotten it myself   
> Requested by theleftpill: For the drabble meme - I have no idea what the phrases are since I don't have the original list, so I'm choosing numbers for personal reasons: 86 (You’re cute with glasses ), 20 (When’s the last time you smiled?), 22 (If I wanted one, I would have gotten it myself)
> 
> Since I had significant overlap in these, I thought it would be easiest just to combine them all (I'm a lazy bastard, but it's harder to use a line/ prompt multiple times, since I always feel like I'm bringing along the last time I used it in my head... yeah, I'ma stop now.)
> 
> Set in The Cheese Stands Alone 'verse (chapters 15, 55, 57)
> 
> This is the list for round 3: https://prompt-bank.tumblr.com/post/146525402053/drabble-challenge
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73, 54, 89, 26, 32, 71, 16, 20, 27, 45, 57, 89, 32, 44, 64, 102, 27, 57, 6, 2, 70, 5, 7, 93, 9, 14, 15, 42, 43, 102, 107, 86, 96, 20, 21, 22  
> Yet to be filled: 2, 14, 94

"Stop being such a brat and just come back," Molly said, her ancient cordless phone wedged between her ear and shoulder as she refilled the salt shaker. She always tidied her kitchen when she was using her land line, it was ridiculous. Who still used a land line anyway? Her one remaining friend from the Tom-era and former colleague 'Meena,' apparently. Dull. "Three is old enough to stay home alone for a few hours while you take a shift in the lab. Just give him a little Benylin and put him in a dog crate with a blanket over it, turn on the telly for some noise, he won't even know you're gone."

_Ah yes, the future mother of my children_ , Sherlock thought dryly.

"Pfft, unfit. And if I wanted one, I would have got it myself. _No_ , it's not baby-snatching if you leave something of equal value in the pram, like a puppy or a bag of apples."

He glanced up and she was smiling that little dimply, impish smile of hers. She was trying to murder him; cause of death—ironically unrequited love and cuteness.

"I'm telling you, the new techs they send in just keep getting worse. I don't know where they're getting them, but..." A pause while Meena said something that made Molly's lips twist into a half-smile, half grimace. "Oh, he was a dope, but at least he's not a creep. This new one, Gaz—yeah, I know, right?—spent his entire first day staring at my tits like he was trying to make eye contact with them to assert his dominance or something."

_He's not going to last long_ , Sherlock thought darkly. His eyes drifted to her chest, her bra-less breasts wobbling rather enticingly under her t-shirt. Molly would find a way to take care of it, she always did, but if she didn't, he could arrange for 'Gaz' to accidentally fall down some stairs or something else equally violent and debilitating. One of the many perks of associating with the criminal classes.

Molly snapped her fingers in front of her chest to get his attention, then pointed rather pointedly to her eyes while pursing her lips. _They're up here_.

Shit. She'd caught him looking. And rather than being flustered or flattered or—best-case—ready to throw the phone down and whip her t-shirt over her head to let him have a go at them, she just looked annoyed.

She laughed at something Meena said and went back to tidying the worktop.

*

"Ugh, my ear feels like it's going to fall off," she said, flopping down next to him on the sofa. It was a Herculean effort not to watch her breasts bounce as she did it; now that she knew he looked and she wasn't happy about it, it was all he wanted to do. Well, more than he normally did, which, to be fair, was a significant amount of time anyway.

He looked at her ear, instead, which was quite red from where it had been pressed to the phone for the last hour and change.

"Now you know why I don't like lengthy phone conversations."

"You don't like any phone conversations," she contradicted, pulling that scornful face of hers that made her look like she should be wearing a ball gown, surrounded by birds and anthropomorphic mice and talking teapots.

"Texting is easier."

"Not when I'm in the middle of a post-mortem."

"That's why you have assistants."

"I have _assistants_ to _assist_ with the _post-mortem_. Not to answer questions like, 'Could you, in theory, fit three Walnut Whips in your mouth at once?' Though really, can't complain about that one, the next day I had seven of them on my desk because apparently Ann told everyone in the department and they all wanted to know. So, I mean, free chocolate. Oh, don't make that face."

"What face? This is my normal face." He might have been making a face; that text was actually supposed to be private, since it wasn't for a case and more a matter of personal curiosity. He'd also been eating a Walnut Whip at the time and was having other, entirely less innocent thoughts about her eating one, too.

"Well, yes, but it's a glower. When's the last time you smiled?"

"Yesterday, though it may have just been wind," he answered dryly.

It had the desired effect; she couldn't help herself and snorted. Molly loved a fart joke. Maybe he could get her to watch some Monty Python again later.

*

"I really wish Meena would come back. She was so good at her job—no accidents, always there on time, never ran the wrong tests on the wrong samples. And she was so much fun! She was the one who dared me to wear her glasses when they did the new ID badge photos. We were talking about how no one ever checks them anyway and I could probably wear a clown nose and a rainbow wig and no one would even raise an eyebrow," Molly said, her tone wistful.

"Mm, always wondered why you had them in that picture," he murmured distractedly, deftly applying a second coat of red varnish to her middle toenail. Being her stand-in girlfriend wasn't all bad all the time; at least he got to be physically close to her and she talked to him. "You look cute with glasses."

_Bollocks_ , he thought. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. He hoped she'd just take it as a girlfriend thing, like telling her her hair was on point or those shoes were _hot_ or whatever it was women said to each other to be supportive.

"Oh, ah, thank you," she said. It was almost a question.

"You're welcome?" he answered, making it a question himself.

He finished applying the varnish in excruciating silence; he was very aware of Molly watching him as he picked her foot up off his lap to blow on her still-wet nails. It was a heavy moment.

"You're, ah, really good at that. Pedicures, I mean," Molly said, her voice strained.

"Had a case once for a nail salon owner. Industrial espionage, more or less—well, less, more than more, they had their own line of varnishes and care products that were being tampered with. Learned how to do it there. She said I could've gone pro. I even got to keep the tips," he babbled, realizing he'd been swiping his thumb over Molly's ankle.

"Just the tips?" Molly asked, and he really wasn't sure if she was making a sex joke or asking a genuine question; he swallowed hard against the implication of the former and the very vivid image his brain supplied him with.

"Actually got a bottle of nail varnish, too. I used it in an experiment. It was purple." _I carried a watermelon._

Good thing she didn't know he'd actually seen (and liked) _Dirty Dancing_ ; he could at least maintain the illusion of having a working pair of testicles. There had to be an appropriate joke in there about the colour blue as well, but he was having a hard time (ha) thinking past the smoothness of her skin. She'd shaved just the night before.

"How is your ankle, by the way?" he asked, changing the subject to something safe.

"Much better, barely feel it now. Bruising's almost gone," she said too quickly, grateful that the conversation was moving away from weird, at least.

"I see," he said, pushing up her trouser leg under the pretence of inspecting her ankle.

"I mean, you can still wait on me hand and foot and carry me up the stairs, if you're still feeling guilty," she joked. "Wouldn't mind a bacon butty right now. Or a glass of wine. Or both."

He turned to her with a look of appalled affront at her gustatory choices, then let it drop. "Actually, do you have any bacon in? I'm a bit peckish myself."

"No, but I've still got plenty of cheese."

"Grilled cheese it is, then. Goes better with the wine, anyway," he said, easing himself out from under her feet.

*

"Mm, God, this is gorgeous," she said, using her finger to swipe a gooey string of cheese off of her chin. "Since when do you know how to cook things that aren't potentially explosive or otherwise hazardous?"

"I'm a man of many talents," he said before biting into his own sandwich. Using the sliced apple in it had been a stroke of brilliance if he did say so himself. "I know how to both boil _and_ fry an egg, too," he added.

"With skills like that, you'll make some lucky woman very happy one day," she said lightly. "You can certainly fill out an apron." She gave him an amused mock-leer from where she was leaned against the sink with her plate.

The apron was rather ridiculous, but he wasn't going to ruin a £300 shirt with grease splatter.

"Well, if you ever come across a woman who doesn't mind the occasional potentially explosive or otherwise hazardous dinner, enjoys solving crimes, and can provide me with human body parts for experimentation, then do give her my number," he said, skirting the edge of actually flirting by injecting just a hint of sarcasm into his tone. It was either that or drop to his knees and beg her to just give him a chance to make her happy; he'd rather not ruin the evening, though.

"I don't know, a woman like that sounds awfully dangerous. Probably has a few bodies buried in her back garden. Could have had an ex-boyfriend that was a criminal mastermind. Maybe _he's_ even buried in her back garden." She smirked before taking a bite of her sandwich.

He was hit with the memory of when he'd told her Moriarty was dead and she needed to do something with the body until Mycroft could arrange disposal; _Shall I just bury him in my back garden, then?_ had been her incredulous response. Hadn't been nearly as amusing at the time.

Wait, was _she_ flirting? Or was she just going along with the joke?

"I like a woman who knows her way around a shovel. Graverobbing's always much more fun with two."

"I thought that was housebreaking."

"That too. Lots of things are better with two. Vandalism, confidence tricks, footraces, most board games..."

"Sex," she supplied.

"Probably," he agreed.

He could almost hear the needle scratch across the vinyl before she scrutinized him.

"I mean, with one person it's not really sex as such and three or more is just too many, so two for sex. Two is the magic number there. Two people. Having sex," he stumbled to clarify, anything to cover the fact that he had no first-hand knowledge of the act.

"Ohhh-kay."

And it was going so well there for a minute.

*

"Sherlock," she said, pulling her calves away from his still-cold feet.

"Hm."

"If I, ah, ever did meet a woman like you described before, or, I mean, someone I thought you might like, would you, ah, ever want me to introduce you? Because, I—I would."

"Thank you, but no."

"Women not your area, married to your work, right."

"No, that's just what I tell John when asks annoying, invasive questions." Because it was dark and he was turned away from her and there was always something about the night-time that made confessions easier, he said it. "To be quite honest, I'm not interested in meeting any women. I've already met one and I can't really imagine anyone else being able to hold a candle to her."

"Oh," she said quietly, sadly. "If you, ah, ever want to talk about it, I mean, it must be hard to keep up long distance for so long..."

Long distance? What was she—oh. Irene Adler, John's blog and the lie he'd told about the witness protection scheme in America.

Really though, what he had with Molly could be considered long distance; the other side of the bed may as well be the other side of the world for all the distance between them.

"It can be trying at times, but every moment I do get with her is precious," he said sincerely. It was probably a cruel thing to do to make her think it was someone else, but maybe, just maybe, if he could get his feelings out like this, he could tell her the truth someday. Or else he was shooting himself in the foot.

She reached over and gave his arm a gentle squeeze.

"I'd spend every hour of every day with her if I could. Sleep next to her every night. Apart from the cold feet, I don't think she'd mind."

"She probably doesn't mind the cold feet as much as she pretends to," Molly said, her voice taking on that gentle, heartbreaking tone of hers when she was clamping down on her own misery to ease someone else's.

He'd maybe made a bit of a mistake, miscalculated how deeply buried the feelings she used to have for him still were. He didn't want to hurt her.

He wiggled backwards a bit and pressed his feet against her again; this time to the outside of her leg, one foot from her ankle to mid-calf, the other above it.

"Or maybe she does mind it, but she puts up with your bullshit because she loves you too much anyway," Molly said, poking him in the back.

His heart sped up with the thought of Molly loving him in return; what a wonderful thing that would be.

"I do sometimes wonder if she does. She's never said it. Not in so many words, at least."

"Have you ever said it to her? I mean, assuming you do love her, which it sounds like you do."

"Oh, I do. More than I ever thought possible. Never found the right moment to actually tell her, though. The timing's always bad."

"Mm. Yeah." A pause. "I'm sure you'll find the right time and the right words one day."

"One hopes," he dismissed.

They settled back down to sleep, both lost in their own thoughts.

"Molly—"

"Hm?"

"Goodnight." He just couldn't do it. Wanted to, but couldn't.

One day.

 


	69. Six Sentence Tumblr Minific #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the thing was "Send me the first sentence of a fic and a pairing, and I’ll give you the next five." But because I can't follow rules, I did six paragraphs for each (well, some were just single sentences, whatever). And then one got away from me, as it sometimes happens. Also, DarnedChild reblogged with a sexy contribution of her own. It was a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: mizjoely asked: For the sentence ask meme: Sherlolly - Maybe now is the right time.
> 
> (listing all of these singly for reasons, so apologies for the chapter dump, but it's the OCD.)

“Maybe now is the right time,” Molly suggested tentatively.

“No.”  Sherlock’s eyes were straight ahead, not sparing her a glance.

“How much longer can we keep going like this, though?  Going to have to change sometime.” 

“I’ll change when it’s appropriate, considering no one is giving way.  We’ll just go around again.  You said it would be nice to go for a drive in the country, we’re in _a_ country and we’re driving.  It’s already like a minibreak.”

“Endlessly circling a roundabout is not a minibreak.”

“You have no sense of adventure.  Molly, that’s not the gear shift.  _Oh_.  Oh, I take it back, you might have some sense of adventure.  Possibly a death wish.  I–oh.  Oh.  I don’t even remember which road we’re supposed to be turning onto, now…”

 


	70. Six Sentence Tumblr Minific #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the thing was "Send me the first sentence of a fic and a pairing, and I’ll give you the next five." But because I can't follow rules, I did six paragraphs for each (well, some were just single sentences, whatever). And then one got away from me, as it sometimes happens. Also, DarnedChild reblogged with a sexy contribution of her own. It was a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bkst-tutu1b asked:
> 
> "What do you mean, I need a pants?" Sherlolly or (drunk!)Sherlock and poor John. Not Johnlock.

“What do you mean, I need a pants? Are you trying for an Italian accent? Or did you accidentally a word? I believe you meant I need no pants,” Sherlock said, staggering a bit as he found his balance on the cold tiles of the hospital floor.

“Much as I know the nurses will appreciate the view, there may be families with small children visiting and you wouldn’t want to scar them for life,” Molly tried to reason, holding up a pair of his preferred black cotton briefs. £1300 suits and £10 for a 3-pack underpants; she supposed even he could be practical about some things.

“I have a gown. They’ve seen ruder things on CBeeBies.”

“I think you’re getting that mixed up with Mighty Boosh. Common mistake, Noel Fielding does look a bit like a reject from a 70s Blue Peter episode. Come on, then, first foot first,” she said, kneeling down to hold the underwear for him to step into.

“I’ll just have to take them back off again once I get to the loo and I’m not supposed to bend over anyway. I was shot and ripped a few stitches just a week ago.”

Molly sighed heavily and cast the pants back on the bed, then gripped the back of his gown to maintain his modesty (not before having a bit of a peek for herself, she deserved some compensation for dealing with his bullshit, love be damned). She followed him to the toilet like that, waited outside, then shuffled him back. The nursing staff smiled at her as they passed by; they already thought she was his girlfriend. If only they knew.


	71. Six Sentence Tumblr Minific #3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the thing was "Send me the first sentence of a fic and a pairing, and I’ll give you the next five." But because I can't follow rules, I did six paragraphs for each (well, some were just single sentences, whatever). And then one got away from me, as it sometimes happens. Also, DarnedChild reblogged with a sexy contribution of her own. It was a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:
> 
> Sherlolly: "Oh my god, I think you fancy her!"

“Oh my god, I think you fancy her!”             

Sherlock rolled his eyes, prepared not to dignify the most annoying bit of inanity to come out of Mary’s mouth all morning with a response, even if it was… (ugh) _insightful_.  Just because Mary had mentioned Molly’s preferences in wedding gowns (she hadn’t pulled the trigger on that purchase yet, how very telling) and he’d contradicted Molly’s choices in general didn’t mean he thought he’d make a suitable replacement for _his_ obvious replacement.  What he felt or didn’t feel for Molly Hooper was no one’s business but his own.

“I don’t fancy her.  I respect her and enjoy her company from time to time, much like yourself of your husband-to-be.  Does that mean I fancy you two as well?”

“Do you?  Because John and I have already talked about trying a threesome sometime.”  She made her cute-as-a-button version of John’s ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ look.

He scowled at her; they always made him the object of their stupid little jokes.  Although, if Molly were to broach the subject of a threesome with her and _her_ husband-to-be… No, he probably wouldn’t consider it, but he’d definitely think about it.  A lot.  In HD-level detail with Dolby Surround 7.1.

“Oh yeah,” Mary said, damnable smile playing about her lips and sparkling in her eyes.  “You fancy her.  You fancy the _pants_ off of her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See [this post](https://darnedchild.tumblr.com/post/165782096821/sherlolly-oh-my-god-i-think-you-fancy-her) for a superhot continuation by [darnedchild](http://archiveofourown.org/users/darnedchild/pseuds/darnedchild).


	72. Six Sentence Tumblr Minific #4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the thing was "Send me the first sentence of a fic and a pairing, and I’ll give you the next five." But because I can't follow rules, I did six paragraphs for each (well, some were just single sentences, whatever). And then one got away from me, as it sometimes happens. Also, DarnedChild reblogged with a sexy contribution of her own. It was a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> biroba asked:
> 
> First sentence (Sherlolly): Why do you have a picture of me in your wallet?

“Why do you have a picture of me in your wallet?  Don’t say it’s for a case.”

“It’s not.  At least, not just one.  Comes in rather handy for all sorts of situations.  You’d be surprised the things people tell you when you show them a personal photograph.  I have one of Archie and one of Rosie, too.  I wonder if their respective parents would let me borrow them for a day.  Do a family portrait in Christmas jumpers or something…  No, probably too specific.  Maybe a day in the park.”

“Family portrait.”

“Yes.  Just look at him, he looks he could have been made by an online baby face generator from our passport pictures.  And babies are generic, Rosie could pass as almost anyone’s.”

“And in these lies, I’m your–?”

“Wife, girlfriend, lost childhood sweetheart, sometimes sister–those are always the weird ones, especially when I accidentally show them the bikini picture first–ow, pinching is not a nice thing to do.  You should be happy, sometimes you get to be dead, you always enjoy pretending to be a corpse for cases.  Molly?  Why are you looking at me like that?  And where did you find scissors?  Wh–no, I need those!  That’s just uncalled-for.”  He resolved never to let her near his unlocked phone, just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Also with art by rebka18 on tumblr.](https://rebka18.tumblr.com/post/165784767796/first-sentence-sherlolly-why-do-you-have-a)


	73. Six Sentence Tumblr Minific #5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the thing was "Send me the first sentence of a fic and a pairing, and I’ll give you the next five." But because I can't follow rules, I did six paragraphs for each (well, some were just single sentences, whatever). And then one got away from me, as it sometimes happens. Also, DarnedChild reblogged with a sexy contribution of her own. It was a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mychakk asked:
> 
> Sherlolly: Molly paused midstep as she entered the kitchen. (For the six sentence meme thing :)) thank you :)

Molly paused midstep as she entered the kitchen. 

“Let me guess.  You’re trying to solve a decades-old cold case and there’s actually a file in that,” she said, indicating the cake Sherlock was taking out of her oven.  Chocolate Bundt, by the look of it.  “Or is it poisoned?”

“No,” he said slowly.  “It’s a perfectly normal chocolate cake.  Your favorite, if I had to venture a guess by the wear of the recipe card.  You’re also home earlier than you should be.”

“Mike chased me out of the lab, wanted to do some demo with his students and you can never get any work done with them milling about, touching things and wiping bogeys everywhere.  They just get younger every year, soon the aides will be carrying them around in ring slings and putting them down for naps after snack time.  So, ah, what’s the occasion?”

Sherlock smirked as he set the cake on the breakfast bar.  “No occasion.  It’s cake, it doesn’t need an occasion.  You like cake, I like cake, cake is sexy.” His eyes widened a bit at that last bit, like he’d surprised himself with what had come out of his mouth.

“Cake is sexy,” she repeated.  Even though she was fluent in Sherlock, she had to assume that there were some things that just didn’t translate.  “So, about twenty minutes til the ‘sexy cake’ cools and we can have some?  Might as well get a shower to kill some time.”  She thought she heard him make a strangled little noise, but it could have been anything.  Choking on his own saliva, she did that sometimes and it was so embarrassing; wouldn’t be nice to draw attention to it, especially when he’d just baked her a cake.

 

*And then, I just had to go and add more*

 

When she got out of the shower (which took longer than she expected, since she’d started cleaning up her brows, then noticed her armpits and legs could use a top-up, then decided now was as good a time as any for landscaping, and hell, she had twenty minutes to kill), she found Sherlock in her bedroom.  On the bed.  In just his pants.  With two slices of cake on one dinner plate in his lap.  There was also a can of whipped cream on the bedside table.

“Were you fibbing about this being for a case?  You were, weren’t you?  This is some kind of weird sex thing gone wrong and you’re trying to recreate it to prove or disprove murder.  Alright, let’s get to it, then, I want some of that cake.”

“Still not for a case.  Unless it’s a case of seduction.”

Molly burst out laughing. That was weak, even for him.  She flopped down next to him, careful not to upset the plate of cake.

“Right then, where’s my fork?  Let’s get this party started.”

“No forks.  Fingers.”

She realized the cake had been cut into bite-sized cubes and reassembled to look like the original slice.  God that man was weird.

“You haven’t touched anything highly toxic or dead at all today?”

“No.  And I washed my hands before I came upstairs.”

“Before or after you got your kit off?” she teased, straight-faced.

“After.”

“So you undressed downstairs.”

“Wh-why does that even matter?  Here, try the cake, that’s the whole point of this.”

She shrugged and gave in, because sometimes it was just easier to go with it.  

He held up a cube with his fingers and she put out her palm to receive it.

“No, just open your mouth, I’m supposed to feed you.”

“Oh.  So is that what makes it ‘sexy cake?’”

“I-I don’t know, is it sexy?” he stammered, slightly flustered as he held the cake to her mouth.  

She leaned forward and ate the cake from his fingers, she’d done weirder things in the name of confectionery before (Bristol, 2004, it involved a seagull, duct tape, a cardboard box, and petit-fours).  Sherlock seemed to go a little pink; she hoped he was just having one of his attacks of the vapours from the threat to his maidenly virtue and that he wasn’t coming down with something.  At least, not something contagious. Wouldn’t that just be the icing on the—nevermind.  

She chewed, swallowed, considered.  "It’s a little dry, actually.  I always add a splash more coffee than what the recipe calls for.“

"Well then you should have made note of it on the recipe card,” he pointed out, annoyed at her critique.

“Why would I make a note?  I know to do it, I don’t need the note to remember.”

“Because someone else might use the recipe and not want to cock it up.”

“Yeah, but if it’s a 'sexy’ cake, wouldn’t you want to _cock_ it up?  With lots of cocks?  Oh God, you _did_ use a spoon to stir the batter, didn’t you?  The cake’s not sexy because you _American Pie_ ’d it?”

“Wh—pie—wh—?” Sherlock choked on his own tongue.

“Nevermind.  Here, just try your own cake,” she said, picking up a cube and holding it to his mouth.

He didn’t hesitate, so she was fairly certain he hadn’t made his own _addition_ to the recipe; he opened his mouth and took the cake, his lips brushing against, then closing over her finger and thumb.  She glanced up at his eyes and noticed his pupils were like saucers, barely a ring of grey around them; the lighting in the bedroom was low, since only the lamp on the side table was on.  He had night vision like a cat, anyway, she half-expected them to flash electric blue when he moved his head.

Instead, he closed his eyes, the sweep of his lashes resting on his cheeks; she felt a bit warm in her dressing gown, but had to leave it on because she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

She couldn’t help but shiver when he pulled his mouth away, his tongue just barely touching the side of her thumb.  She watched him chew and swallow, glad that her dressing gown was made of thick terrycloth and he couldn’t see her nipples through it.

“It _is_ a bit dry,” he conceded.  "Good thing I brought this, then.“ He leaned to the side and picked up the can of whipped cream, giving it a little shake before uncapping it.  He made the most ridiculous face as he squirted the whipped cream over the cake, using a lot more than was necessary.  He set the can back on the bedside table without recapping it, the tit.

And then, because he truly _was_ a tit, he swiped his finger through the whipped cream and sucked it into his mouth, looking at her while he did so.  She wasn’t sure if he was trying to be sexy or if he had a had a sore tooth, honestly.  She wasn’t sure about anything, right then, actually; it seemed like odd lengths to go to for a case he wasn’t explaining and insisted didn’t exist in the first place.

Wait…

"Are you… _actually_ trying to seduce me?”

“…Is it working?”

…Was it?  Well, yes, she supposed, since she would have slept with him literally the first day she’d met him, though six-plus years of friendship and like a million and one other ways to go about it made it all seem so highly unlikely as to be a very elaborate joke.

“Maybe?  Feed me more cake,” she said slowly, buying herself time to let something surreal enough happen that she recognized it for the dream it was, or for him to crack and start laughing and pointing, _oh the look on your face!_

He scooped up another piece of cake piled high with whipped cream, held it out only far enough that she had to lean forward to take it with her mouth.

_Might as well have a little fun with it while I can_ , she thought, closing her lips over his finger and rolling the cake to the inside of her cheek to she could flick his fingertip with her tongue.

He exhaled heavily through his mouth, almost a gasp, and yeah, wow, he wasn’t acting.  She wondered just what that cake plate might be hiding.  Because she could be terrible when she wanted to be, she sucked his finger into her mouth and wiggled the flat of her tongue against it, pulled off a bit and flicked it again, drew it deeper, then looked up at him through her lashes and maintained suction as she slowly pulled all the way off.

Oh, he was wrecked, eyes dark and sparkling, cheeks pink, lips red and wet…  If he _was_ trying to seduce her, it was _definitely_ working.

Before she could reach for a piece of cake to feed him, the plate was whisked away to the bedside table and Sherlock’s (sticky) hands were cupping her face, and then he was kissing her like he was trying to suck the last crumbs off her molars.

*

“Why did you bake a cake, anyway?” she asked later, shagged out and curled around him.

“Once, when we were waiting for you for something—I don’t remember what, not important—I made mention of the fact that you were taking ages and John said 'should have told here there’ll be cake, she’ll come twice as fast if there’s cake.’  I thought he was able to deduce something about your—ahem—proclivities that I hadn’t because some things are outside the scope of my expertise.”

Molly laughed against his neck.  "Are you being serious?“

"When am I ever not serious?”  There was the slight trace of a teasing lilt to his voice.

She pushed herself up on one elbow to give him a look, raising her eyebrow.  Christ he was gorgeous, relaxed and happy and—

“You have cake in your hair.”

“Well, let’s just be glad you nixed one of my ideas or _you_ ’d have cake somewhere entirely less comfortable.”

She laughed and kissed him, sliding a tacky hand down his side.  "I have lots of cookbooks, if you ever want to, ah, test your hypothesis again sometime.  I can think of a few things we could do with a sticky toffee pudding.“


	74. “Amazing. They shaped the peanut butter circle into a small pumpkin. How extraordinary.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a different tumblr prompt meme, this one being Halloween sentence starters: http://sunken-standard.tumblr.com/post/166406032335/muses-first-halloween-sentence-starters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by girlwhowearsglasses: Halloween sentence starters: “Amazing. They shaped the peanut butter circle into a small pumpkin. How extraordinary.”
> 
> (I still owe prompt fics from the other memes and I'm working on them, but I've been staring at them too long and I needed something fresh to hopefully shake something loose; I need to warm up into my comedy game again.)

"Didn't find the right match yet?" Molly asked, taking a sip of her coffee. She hadn't expected him to be there by the time she got back from the monthly staff meeting.

"No, database went down for thirty minutes while they did something with the servers and I had to restart it. Should be finished any time now," he said without looking up from the microscope. "Package came for you."

"Did you open it?"

" _No_."

"Did you shake it?"

"It's marked fragile, perishable, hazardous, and in a polystyrene shipping box, of course I didn't shake it," he said, making that face like he'd licked a cat's bottom. His face smoothed back to normal. "I weighed it."

He hopped off the stool and grabbed the box from under the lab table, setting it in front of her with a flourish. "It's from a Dr. Burma at the University of Tennessee Anthropological Research Facility," he said managing to both fidget and loom at the same time.

She instantly perked up. It was that time of year again and Meena always remembered her.

Sherlock handed her a scalpel to cut the sealing tape on the box before she could even turn around to look for one.

"So what is it? Too heavy for insect casings or hair and fibre samples, too light for preserved specimens or prepared slides. It's something good though, isn't it? It has to be, it's coming from _the_ Body Farm. I hope it's teeth. Is it teeth?"

"You'll see."

She lifted the lid off the box and shifted the gel packs aside to reveal a bounty of treasure in black-and-purple wrappers.

"Sweets," Sherlock said flatly.

"Not just any sweets. Reese's Peanut Butter Pumpkins."

Sherlock looked like she'd just kicked his puppy. He picked one out of the box and looked it over.

"I don't see why she'd go to the trouble of sending you sweets you can buy in any shop in the city."

"You can't buy these here. And they're not like the ones in shops."

“Amazing. They shaped the peanut butter circle into a small pumpkin. How extraordinary," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Try one, you'll understand."

He looked ready to protest, then thought better of it and opened the packet.

"Doesn't even look a proper pumpkin, it looks like a pooh," he grumped, giving her a good idea of what Sherlock Holmes, aged five-and-three-quarters looked like. He took a bite and chewed, then got the right idea and just let it melt in his mouth a bit; his face relaxed from contrary into grudging respect for the delicacy that was a Reese's.

"I told you. American chocolate might be rubbish, but there are exceptions to every rule. The peanut butter to chocolate ratio is the highest in the pumpkins, even higher than the trees—which, okay, also look like a pooh, but they're still aces. These are the 24-carat Reese's, the round ones you get in shops are only 18-carat at best."

"Shtill wish 'ey were teef," he said around the rest of the pumpkin. Apparently he didn't know how to savour something so rare and wonderful, the philistine.

She sighed, giving in _again_. "How many teeth do you want?"

"How many can I have?"

"That depends on what you're going to do with them."

"Bury them to measure the effects of soil exposure on enamel."

"Bury them where?"

He looked away. So her back garden, then. She'd already stopped him from burying a whole loin of pork back there last summer because she didn't want to attract rats or cats or foxes or heaven-only-knows-what. She'd got a lot of pies out of that failed experiment.

"No."

"But they'll be safe there, no one will disturb them or accidentally find them and call the police."

"And what if you forget where they're buried and someone finds them in twenty years?"

"I wouldn't _forget_. I never forget anything."

"What's Lestrade's first name?"

He narrowed his eyes and turned his face to look at her askance. "G—a—eh—er—eh—et?" he groped, watching her face as he tried each sound. "Garrett, it's Garrett."

"Greg."

"That's what I said. Greg."

"Uh huh. No teeth in my garden."

*

 

(Sherlock did get his teeth and a compromise was reached; he would use the pot plants on the patio and in her kitchen. And what did Molly get out of the deal? Funny story, there seemed to be a misunderstanding about "dinner," but in the end, they were both rather satisfied with the way the evening turned out.)

 

*

And because you guys asked for it (I'd actually written part of it and it was getting too long so I just summed it up) so here it is, boring and awkward and inane (picks up right where the last part left off):

 

"What about the pot plants in the kitchen?" he asked quickly, grasping at straws.

She considered. "Only the Peace Lily and the ivy."

"What about the geranium by the back door? Should have something exposed to the weather for a variable."

"Fine," she said, finally taking her first nibble of a pumpkin. Ah, bliss. "I get co-author credit in the byline if you find anything interesting enough to write about." It never hurt to pad her CV, and she usually ended up doing half the work anyway.

"Of course."

"And I want dinner." Might as well up the stakes a bit, now that she had solid footing.

Sherlock's posture locked up and he seemed suddenly flustered. "O-okay," he choked. "Now?"

"Noooo," she said slowly, wondering if he'd deleted the names of meals now, too, because they were irrelevant to his eating schedule. It was only half ten, she hadn't even had lunch yet. Though she supposed the pumpkin counted as brunch. "Tonight would work for me, though, I've got nothing on."

He swallowed hard and nodded, pale as a ghost. Christ, it was just a meal, she'd fed him enough over the last few years and given him enough hazardous biological waste to fill a skip, it wasn't like she was asking for a holiday in Greece or a new telly or something. Whatever.

*

He showed up at her flat just before seven looking twitchier than ever. He took his coat off and very deliberately hung it on the peg like he was stalling; she assumed they weren't leaving just yet or he'd ordered a takeaway and was afraid she wouldn't be happy about it or something. He was so weird sometimes.

It only got weirder as he came to stand well within her personal space, close enough that she could feel his breath on her face (minty, she noted); he just looked at her expectantly for a few very long, strange moments before he kind of shook himself and squared his shoulders and then leaned in and kissed her.

Bloody hell.

She had no idea what was going on and how they got from _buy me nice food that I_ _ **don't**_ _have to cook for once in exchange for years of piecemeal body snatching_ to _snog me until I'm ready to pass out from lack of oxygen_.

"Sherlock," she mumbled against his mouth, not really wanting to pull away but really thinking she needed to address this.

"Mm?" He laid his hand gently on her jaw while he floundered with his other hand before resting it very, very lightly on her waist, like he was afraid to put it there.

"Wh—uh—what are—you—doing?" she asked between awkward presses of lips.

It was, without a doubt, one of the worst first kisses she'd ever had with a bloke in her life, but there was something off about it that was more than just lack of coordination between the two of them. "Is this—an—experiment?"

He stopped kissing her then, pulled back enough to look at her. "You said you wanted dinner. Tonight. So... _dinner_." He looked confused and ready to bolt out the door any second.

"I'm not complaining, but, ah, this part usually comes after."

He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head, obviously sliding the squares around on some kind of mental Rubik's Cube until—

"So in fact— you actually meant... a—meal?" he asked haltingly.

"Er, yeah? Dinner, a meal—what did you think I meant?"

Sherlock went pale again and it was like he lost all muscle tone in his extremities; she got the feeling he wanted to remove his hands from her person but he was momentarily paralyzed. His mouth opened and closed again before he swallowed and finally managed, "So 'dinner' isn't some kind of— _code_ —for sex?"

"Um... I mean, maybe? For some people?" Then she was hit with the full impact of what he was saying. "So you thought I was asking you to trade sex for tissue samples?"

"Yes," he admitted, his eyelids fluttering and his jaw thrusting forward as he refused to look directly at her. He started to step back; the hand on her waist slipped away, though the one on her face seemed to linger for just a moment longer before he pulled that back, too.

She didn't know how to feel right then; a bit insulted that he thought she would proposition him like that out of the blue, a bit like he was a creep for just going along with it, a bit like _she_ was the creep and he was the victim, using himself to get something he wanted from someone who had it. There was also a generous dose of that treacherous hope that he might just want to anyway, because he liked her, because he thought she was attractive.

"Oh," she said quietly.

"I am sorry," he said, tone formal like it had been that other time.

She flushed hot with embarrassment and anger, remembering; it wasn't the same as then, but it still _felt_ the same, even if he'd been the one to misread things this time.

"Wishful thinking, I suppose," he muttered, then cleared his throat. "I'll just, um...go." He leaned towards the door before taking another awkward step backwards.

Wishful thinking? Wait, no, that wasn't right. Was it? If he'd ever thought about her like that before, surely he would have said something. She'd been single for ages and she assumed he was too, not that he ever said much about it.

"Wait!" she blurted, then groped about for anything to say because she couldn't bring herself to ask what she wanted to. "The teeth. You um, almost... don't forget them."

"Ah, teeth. Right," he said, turning on his heel to face her again. "Wouldn't want to forget those." There was just something about him that seemed so trampled, dejected; she'd never seen him like that and it wasn't—it didn't—

"Are you hungry? We can still go and get di—something to eat. And then I can help you with your experiment. And after that..." she shrugged, wanting to lay down the offer of 'dinner,' because _maybe_ , but still just not able to let herself to take that first step after all this time.

He tipped his head down and squinted. "After that...?"

 _Just do it_ , she told herself. "Dinner?" she said, her voice too shrill to come off as nonchalant. "Only if you would want to. Not as some kind of trade or anything. Because you—want to."

"I want to," he said quickly. "Do you want to?"

"Right now?"

"Or... later."

"Now is good."

"Right, then, uh, now," he stammered, getting closer to her again. "Just, ah, just to be clear, we are talking about sex?"

"Yes."

"Good."

He stared at her and she stared at him for another infinite, awkward moment before she decided one of them had to move and he didn't look like he'd be sweeping her off her feet any time soon. She put one hand on his shoulder and the other against the side of that ridiculously long neck of his and pushed herself up on her toes to kiss him properly this time.

*

"I'm hungry. And now it's too late to go and get dinner," Molly said much later, too tired to actually get dressed and go out anyway.

Sherlock turned his head on the pillow and looked over at her. "We should probably clarify our terminology."

"Wouldn't want any more awkward, unlikely misunderstandings that might lead to amazing sex," she said, straight-faced.

"Mm, no, certainly wouldn't want that," he deadpanned.

"So, dinner?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her before rolling on top of her. "Don't mind if I do."

 

 


	75. "We're going to freeze to death"/ "Fire! Fire! Fire!"/ "Let's bet"/ "I cheated."/ "Pillows are over-rated."/ "Zombies aren’t real, I promise."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ANOTHER tumblr drabble challenge ask meme thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three requests in one fill:
> 
> juldooz requested: New prompt list for the drabble challenge: 144 (I cheated.), 146 (Pillows are over-rated.), 147 (Zombies aren’t real, I promise.)? (from the list for Round 2)  
> 8minutehooper requested: For the Drabble ask meme, if you're inclined to keep going with these: #2 We're going to freeze to death or #14 Fire! Fire! Fire! Please and Thank you! ?  
> fiammablade3466 requested: Hi! You asked drabble prompt from that list... if your requests are still open I ask 94. Let's bet Have a nice day!
> 
> Filled: 17, 95, 72, 84, 105, 41, 28, 69, 90, 95, 46, 100, 104, 81, 18, 24, 108, 99, 25, 61, 66, 52, 80, 73, 54, 89, 26, 32, 71, 16, 20, 27, 45, 57, 89, 32, 44, 64, 102, 27, 57, 6, 2, 70, 5, 7, 93, 9, 14, 15, 42, 43, 102, 107, 86, 96, 20, 21, 22, 2, 14, (144, 146, 147), 94  
> Yet to be filled: 97, 136
> 
> This is an AU that's canon-divergent sometime after TEH and sometime before TSoT. Sorry, it's not humor, but I just kind of go where the winds take me, and after so many dropped attempts at these prompts, I'm just thrilled I had an idea.

"Oh Sherlock, zombies aren't real, I promise," Sherlock said, his voice a grating falsetto.

"I said that like a year ago, would you let it go already?" Molly hissed back, peeking around the library shelf with her axe at the ready. Never had she been so thankful for Tom's absolute nerdiness as the day the outbreak started; he'd been a rubbish fighter but his manchild arsenal had kept her (and Sherlock) alive since then.

"You were wrong then and you're wrong now. Wiggins said he had a cache here, he knows how to hide things, it's still here."

"Well then let's just hope it's more than a ten-bag of weed and six black-market Russian amphetamine tablets like his 'cache' in that bus stop in Southwark."

"I don't know what you expected from a bus stop to begin with, unless you thought he dug a hole and buried a year's worth of tins of mushy peas and tomato soup under it."

"You know what? Let's bet. We're not going to find anything we need, like antibiotics or _any kind_ of _useful_ medication, or even _anything_ useful. At best it'll be a packet of Smarties and a biro."

"Stakes?"

"If I'm wrong then you can have first pick of whatever there might be."

"And if you're right?"

"We follow John and Mary," she said simply. It was an old argument that came up more these days; winter had set in and the Zed were less active, but food was becoming scarce for everyone left in the city; they only managed to eat because of Wiggin's paranoia and Sherlock's people skills (oh God the irony there).

"Because Edinburgh—where we have no Wiggins, no network, and no practical knowledge of the geography—would be _so_ much safer."

He was still angry with John and Mary six months on.

"We wouldn't stay in Edinburgh. We'd go find land in the country and there would be six of us to defend it, I mean, assuming Harry is alive and they found her, and we could farm. There are probably some livestock animals left, and seeds out there somewhere, and barring that, we could—I dunno, hunt swans and forage in hedgerows. We have a better chance out there than we do here, long term."

Sherlock huffed a breath; he knew she was right. "Let's just find the cache first, shall we? We can talk about it later. Go, I'll cover you."

She flipped down the visor on her helmet and ran for the reference section. Sherlock followed at a bit of a distance, scimitar drawn, enough to give them both ample fighting room should they need it. There were two Zed somewhere in the vast room by the sound of it, but they hadn't found them yet. They made it to the reference section without incident, which was good; they needed to find the cache and get out because they were losing light fast. Sherlock had a bolthole a few streets over; they needed to make it there before nightfall.

"Where did he say it was?"

"He didn't."

"Wonderful."

"We're lucky he was coherent enough to remember which borough it was," Sherlock pointed out.

They started searching, pulling out sections of books and looking behind them, looking for anything taped to the undersides of the shelves; she hoped like hell it wasn't a fool's errand. Wiggins hadn't been the most with-it before he'd got bit and they'd taken his arm, and now... He wasn't healing well because there was never enough food, never enough medicine, never enough anything and his brain—well. They never knew if they'd get back to Baker Street to find another mindless zombie in the flat, either from self-administered poison or the sudden onset of gangrene.

She didn't want to think about it.

"Oh!" Sherlock said suddenly, too loud for a library and too loud for an enclosed space with an unknown number of Zed in the building.

"Shh!"

"What books did people stop using years ago?"

"Riddles, Sherlock."

He made a face and went for a section of shelves, ran his fingers along the spines until he found what he was looking for and pulled out the book. "Encyclopedias," he said, opening the book with a flourish to reveal a pharmacy-sized bottle of tablets snug in a custom cut-out section.

The feeling of relief was almost palpable; they had at least one thing to use or trade now. Sherlock pulled out another encyclopedia and flipped it open, giggling when he saw what was inside. He held up a packet of Smarties.

"These are mine," he said, grinning.

*

"We're going to freeze to death," she said, teeth chattering. It had to be close to zero outside as a cold, heavy rain fell on the roof of the covered market, dripping through one of the broken panels to land in a puddle near the shop Sherlock had chosen to hole up in for the night, since the bolthole had been compromised. At least the rain kept the Zed outside, drawn by the noise. All the shops had long been picked over for anything remotely useful and all the perishable food no one wanted rotted down to black, slimy piles; they'd been lucky enough to find a bin of cheap carpets in one of the shops that sold this and that, so at least they weren't sleeping directly on the floor. Almost a luxury, these days, when they were away from home.

"More likely one of us, probably you since you're smaller, will freeze to death and bite the other. Either way, we'll probably both die," Sherlock said, pulling one of the larger carpets over the both of them like a blanket. A lot of things had changed since the world ended, but at least they'd both maintained a sense of humour, black as it was.

"Wish we could have found some pillows."

"Pillows are overrated," Sherlock mumbled, shuffling himself into a more comfortable position.

"You say that now, but tomorrow..."

"May never come, so there's no point thinking about it," he said, finally giving up on trying to find a position that wouldn't leave him stiff and sore come the morning and curling around her for warmth.

"I'm so glad one of us is still an optimist," she said, turning into him and settling in his arms, taking what comfort she could when she could. It only took the end of the world to get this close to him.

*

"Fire!" She let go of Sherlock's waist and tapped his shoulder. "Fire! Fire!"

He couldn't hear her with the helmet on, but he must have looked where she was pointing to the smoke billowing in the sky. He cut the throttle on the motorbike and pulled to the kerb (old habits).

"It's not home, is it?" she asked after pulling off her helmet.

Sherlock watched the sky for a moment, calculating. "No, closer. Westminster probably, no farther than Mayfair. Might need to take a different route back. Stay alert."

As if she needed to be told.

*

They stopped again just before crossing Vauxhall Bridge. Sherlock counted out a dozen Clonazepam into a sandwich bag; she hoped it would be enough to get them a few litres of petrol. Prices kept going up.

Same as it ever was.

Sherlock squinted at the smoke from the fire, blacker now, thicker. "It's Buckingham Palace," he said.

She shared a look with him; it was more than losing just another thing from before. It felt like England had well and truly fallen, even if the Palace had been devoid of life for months. They'd been past the gates a few times; dead guards and staff, snipers and MPs (all evacuated to the Palace just before the barricades across Westminster Bridge failed) roamed aimlessly, shuffling toward the fence as they were drawn to the noise of the motorbike and dispersing again sometime after they were gone.

Someone must have been desperate enough to walk into a contained hoard, or angry enough. She hoped there wasn't a new gang to deal with; they never lasted long, nothing lasted these days, but it was always trouble when some bully who was lucky enough to make it this far fancied himself the next Genghis Khan by right of Darwinism.

*

 _Some people just want to watch the world burn_ , she thought. And some people felt like they had to, to bear witness. She wasn't sure which she was, now, some days.

Going into the heart of the inferno was insane, especially loaded down with enough trade goods to keep them in food and petrol for the next six months, but they were upwind and it was breezy enough to carry the smoke away, over the Palace Gardens, over Belgravia.

"Subtle," Sherlock murmured, looking the double-decker bus that had smashed through the gates. He drank from his water bottle, passed it to her.

A small group—fifteen or so clumped into a loose herd—stumbled toward the bus from The Mall, drawn by the fire. They didn't bother taking cover, they were far enough away not to be noticed if they kept quiet, kept still.

Another Zed staggered through the gate, away from the flames; she was covered in blood and gore, but her clothing seemed intact and she wasn't missing any limbs or dragging her guts along behind her. Recently turned, then. Didn't see a lot of that any longer. Inevitable, though. One day that would be Molly herself, one day that would be Sherlock.

The rogue Zed serpentined her way through the herd; had it spotted them? Something was odd about it, Zed didn't act like that. They travelled in straight lines, faster when they spotted prey, didn't avoid collisions with each other.

"Of course," Sherlock breathed.

She looked up at him.

"The blood, it's camouflage. Probably the scent. Clever," he said quietly, a note of admiration in his voice.

Jealousy, sharp and sudden and utterly ridiculous, spiked her heart. Silly, really, but it was the first she'd heard him talk about another person without a trace of disdain in months.

They remained silent as the woman made her way closer and the Zed filtered through the gate. When it was safe enough, she stood straight and walked normally. There was something about her, something predatory, that made Molly's hand twitch for her axe. She stopped herself; _don't show aggression, it makes you look scared, don't let them see fear, don't let them see weakness_.

"Remember, remember," the woman sing-songed. "Do you know what today is?"

Oh wonderful, another nutter. Molly saw Sherlock's stance shift from alert to on-guard.

"Bonfire night," he said. Probably a guess; they tried to keep track of days, but there really wasn't much point to it now.

"Silly to burn Westminster, when they all came here," she said. Her voice was light and hollow, somehow innocent while being devoid of any emotion at all. "Why burn one effigy when I can burn seven hundred?"

 _Wow_ , Molly thought. She had the feeling this woman wasn't just another one of the crackpot roaches like Wiggins who managed to survive even without their wits intact; there was something about her that made Molly want to run.

"So I take it you're not from the neighbourhood, since you're obviously not worried about the fire spreading," Sherlock said, his tone friendly, casual. "Nice trick with the blood, by the way. How did you figure that out?"

"A cannibal suggested it. He's dead now. He wasn't as clever as he thought he was."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. He wasn't. Nobody was; they'd all used up their capacity for sympathy and empathy was too precious a resource to waste on the dead.

"Why? It was a game. He lost. I cheated. He should have been cleverer."

"Ah," Sherlock said shortly, shifting away from Molly to draw the woman's attention to himself. He was preparing for a fight.

Something exploded inside the Palace, the ground shaking enough to throw Molly off balance.

Sherlock's arm shot out to steady her. "We need to go," he said. He turned to the woman. "Will you be alright?"

"Nothing can hurt the East Wind," she said, her face blank.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed for a split second before he put his helmet on and swung his leg over the bike.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with fanart by unefleurmorte on tumblr!: https://unefleurmorte.tumblr.com/post/166501607288/ficlet-cemetery-chapter-75-were-going-to


	76. "This isn’t one of those Santa Clause things, is it? I don’t want to know what kinds of presents he would bring.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a different tumblr prompt meme, this one being Halloween sentence starters: http://sunken-standard.tumblr.com/post/166406032335/muses-first-halloween-sentence-starters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by anitaww-blog: And for the Halloween starters: “This isn’t one of those Santa Clause things, is it? I don’t want to know what kinds of presents he would bring.” Thank you.

"Oh dear God," were the first words out of Sherlock's mouth as he stepped into Molly's flat. He hadn't even been in Italy for a week and it looked like Molly had moved out and sublet her flat to a combination party supply/ New Age shop. Bats and antique glass bottles filled with coloured liquids and fake cobwebs and rustic brooms and—were those dried bunches of herbs? When did she acquire a complete articulated skeleton? He'd not seen that before, though why she felt the need to put a witch's hat on it was beyond him.

"Oh, you're back!" she said, popping up from behind the breakfast bar like some deranged shop girl.

"What the hell are you wearing?" he asked, wondering if he had, in fact, actually stepped through a vortex in spacetime and ended up in a different universe.

"It's called a dress," she said, moving to the middle of the kitchen floor and holding out the side of the gauzy black skirt while her other arm extended to nowhere, the fringed shawl (also black) she wore looking vaguely like bat wings as she did an odd little twirl, bowing her back so her hair hung past her bum. He tried not to stare at where the very low v-neck of the dress gapped and he could see the lace of her bra (even that was black) or at how the high-heeled side-button Victorian boots made her deceptively long legs seem even longer.

_Down boy_ , he thought, blurting the first not-creepy thing that came to mind. "You look like you rode a bicycle through a clothesline in Camden Market."

She gave him a look that was the physical equivalent of a _wtf?_ and yes, fine, it made more sense in his head because he'd pictured it like an old film, some kind of out-of-control bicycle chase complete with rollicking piano score and horrified Goth onlookers. In his defence, he'd only had a nap on the plane and before that he hadn't slept in days.

"Why are you dressed like that?" he recovered.

"It's the Great Pumpkin, Sherlock Holmes!" she grinned.

"Wh—pumpkin?"

"It's from a cartoon. The Great Pumpkin visits all the good boys and girls on Halloween night and—"

"This isn’t one of those Father Christmas things, is it? I don’t want to know what kinds of presents he would bring. Probably something naff and covered in purple glitter. And _themed_. Halloween," he scoffed. "How very American."

"It was ours first, I'm taking it back. Besides, Halloween is the one month a year I can dress like Stevie Nicks every day and not feel silly. Well, not as silly as I normally would."

"Who?"

She spun again and looked at him expectantly; he wondered if she'd stopped by Baker Street recently for one of Mrs. Hudson's soothers.

"Nevermind. How was the case?"

"Exhausting, ultimately disappointing, but it's one less favour I owe Mycroft," he said, finally slipping out of his coat.

"Mm. Better luck next time, I suppose. Are you hungry? The ladyfingers should be cool by now."

He looked at the tray on the worktop and yes, exactly what he expected, complete with almonds for the finger nails.

"Oh how novel."

"I've got mince mice and mummy breadsticks in the oven, if you can wait about," she glanced at the clock, "half an hour?"

"Sounds delicious," he said flatly. He was hungry, though. And tired. "I'm going to have a lie-down until then."

She waved him off and he trudged up the stairs, wondering how they'd ended up an old married couple without so much as ever having kissed; mystery for the ages, he supposed.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he got to the bedroom; gone was the paisley-print duvet and the eight thousand coordinating throw pillows. The bed was made up in a deep red velvet with black embroidered trim and draped in some kind of sheer black fabric somehow attached to the ceiling and wrapped around the bedposts.

_Where had she been storing all this?_ he thought. It obviously wasn't new. He shrugged it off and stripped on his way to the wardrobe, only to find that the plain cotton pyjamas in his drawer had been replaced by black satin. That was going a bit far, but whatever, he didn't care, he just wanted to sleep.

He woke up rather suddenly to a child standing over him with a knife; he rolled on reflex and the knife plunged into the pillow, sending feathers flying.

"You hesitated, Eurus. Next time only savour the moment after you've successfully stabbed someone."

"Yes, Father," she said glumly. "Mother says breakfast is ready."

"Mm. Go untie your brother and make sure he doesn't wash his hands. Wiggins!"

"You rang?" He appeared from the shadows, looming over the bed.

"Do clean this up. Have you seen Mrs. Hudson?"

"Inna basement, inn't she?"

"Mm. It's Thursday, I suppose she's summoning Mrs. Turner for tea again. Honestly, I wish she'd just content herself with demons, ectoplasm is so hard to get out of the carpet," he muttered, turning this way and that in the mirror, deciding if his moustache needed to be trimmed. Wiggins held out his dressing gown, but Sherlock opted for the pinstripe jacket instead; no time for lounging this morning.

He went downstairs to the dining room, the table already laid for breakfast. Eurus and Mycroft came running in, Mycroft covered in dirt. Soil from the western corner of the garden, by the look of it. Eurus did so love the family plot; he smiled fondly as he wondered who she'd dug up to replace with Mycroft this time.

Molly came floating in, resplendent as always in her hobble skirt and blood red lipstick.

"Mycroft," she scolded. "what have we said about grenades at the table?"

"Always pull the pin out first," he repeated glumly.

"That's right," she smiled, setting down a thick slice of chocolate cake in front of him. She rounded the table to Sherlock's place and they watched proudly as their son pulled the pin and handed the grenade to his sister. Eurus scowled at him happily before digging into her own breakfast of frogs' legs and balut one-handed.

"Wretched morning, isn't it my darling?" Molly said, laying a hand on the back of his neck, brushing her fingers through the ends of his curls.

"Absolutely dreadful, _cara mia_ ," he said, taking her other hand and kissing his way up her arm.

"Sherlock," she sighed happily.

"Sherlock," she said rather less happily. His eyes flew open and he was momentarily disoriented; the material under his mouth was still black crepe, but why was he—

He sat up, blinking awake. "What?" he asked, trying to sound more coherent than he felt.

"I said, it's time for dinner, if you're hungry. Which, apparently you are, since you were saying something in Italian and gnawing on my arm just now. Had I known you were turning cannibal I wouldn't have bothered with the shopping this week, I would’ve just brought something home from work," she tittered, awkwardly extracting her arm from his grasp.

"So you didn't redecorate your bedroom to look like something from a vampire film?"

"Noo..." she said, looking over her shoulder at him on her way to the kitchen. "You started telling me about the Pope giving you a tour of the secret ossuary under St. Peter's and then you just passed out on the sofa."

"So you didn't make mince mice on a stick or mummy bread?"

"No? I made a mummy's _head_ ," she said, directing his attention to the platter on the breakfast bar. It was both creative _and_ rather gruesome.

"Would you like to have dinner sometime?" he asked impulsively, their dream-children still fresh in his mind. Every journey begins with a single step.

"Um, we're about to?" she said, scrutinizing him. "You didn't forget to mention a head injury, did you?"

_Bollocks_ , he thought. So much for that. "It's only a slight concussion, I've had worse from walking to a doorframe," he lied. _Smooth, Holmes_.

She huffed a breath and rolled her eyes.

There was always next time, he supposed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The mummy head meatloaf is real. ](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-J-TI0145d7Q/VE1OoRGczYI/AAAAAAAAPqI/qn6xNdt2ELs/s1600/img_7684a.jpg)
> 
> Also, partially inspired by [this artwork](https://78.media.tumblr.com/f3a908bd562f2434a70bd779446c050b/tumblr_messaging_oya8xh3iNC1si4ha4_1280.jpg) by o0katiekins0o.


	77. “Costumes and candy are for babies. You and me? We’re going to raise the dead.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a different tumblr prompt meme, this one being Halloween sentence starters: http://sunken-standard.tumblr.com/post/166406032335/muses-first-halloween-sentence-starters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by mychakk: For The Halloween sentence thingy: “Costumes and candy are for babies. You and me? We’re going to raise the dead.” :D sherlolly of course.

**Need your help for a thing. Lab, 23:30, don't be late.**

Sherlock glanced at the text one more time as he walked towards the morgue. Molly wasn't usually this cryptic, typically writing a dissertation spanning four texts of negations and apologies and explanations if she ever had to ask a favour. He wasn't worried. Much.

He stopped dead once inside the morgue; the overhead lights were out and the room was lit by what had to be a hundred candles ringing a sheet-covered body on the slab. His gut clenched until he noticed Molly in the corner, making notes in a file like it was any other post-mortem.

She turned and smiled. "Ah, good, right on time, let's get started."

"What's this about? Is this some kind of— Halloween—" he wiggled his fingers "—thing?" he asked, remembering the date. She quite liked Halloween or, at least, always seemed a bit cheerier right around that time, much like some people perked up around Christmas.

"'Halloween thing' makes it sound so amateur. Fancy dress and sweets are for babies. You and me? We're going to raise the dead."

 _You and_ _ **I**_ , he corrected on reflex, then absorbed what she'd said. "Raise the dead."

"Yes."

"Have you been inhaling some fumes you shouldn't have been? Maybe ate too much and fell asleep in front of the telly while a horror film was playing?"

She looked to be taking a moment to steel herself before saying, "There's something you don't know about me. It's, ah, probably just easier to show you rather than tell you."

He waited, wondering what he may have missed. She picked up an old leather-bound book from next to the file she'd been working on and flipped through it before reciting something in what sounded like Scots; he felt the oddest sort of tingling in his limbs and a bit disoriented as his field of vision oriented itself a foot higher than it normally was. He looked down and yes, his feet had left the floor.

He ran through all possible scenarios—accidentally drugged, actually asleep, head injury, sudden neurological event causing hallucinations, some kind of freak localized gravitational anomaly, actually levitating as a result of what Molly was reading from the book. Considering he couldn't prove or disprove any of his other hypotheses, he chose to temporarily work with 'magic is real and Molly Hooper is some kind of witch.'

"So why do you need my help? And if you could see fit to put my feet back on the floor?"

"Oh, sorry," she said, flicking her finger and letting him drop to the floor. Good thing he had excellent reflexes, she didn't let him down gently. "Blood of a virgin," she added brightly.

"I'm sorry?"

"If I were only trying to contact the other side, I could just use any old blood, but to reanimate someone, I need the blood of a virgin. You're the only virgin I know and I didn't have time to troll university mixers for spotty gamers in fedoras. I'm on a bit of schedule here, so if you could just—?"

"Wh—uh—I'm not a _virgin_. Can't you just use Rosie's blood?"

"The spell doesn't call for blood of an infant, who knows what I'd get? It's like chemistry, you don't just substitute sulfuric acid for hydrochloric willy-nilly. And you don't have to be embarrassed about it, some people are just late bloomers."

"I'm not a late bloomer and I'm not a virgin. I've done _things_." Not that he needed to elaborate or defend himself, but he had plenty of sexual experience. He went to public school and he'd had a girlfriend once (even if it was fake; and sure, maybe they hadn't had penetrative sex, but genitals still featured rather heavily in their encounters) and, well, sexting didn't count per se, but he'd done that, too. Plenty of sexual experience.

"This book was written in 1631. The things you've done—which I don't need to know the details of—were not the things they had in mind."

He scowled at her. Did she read minds, too? "How do you know?" he accused.

"Call it women's intuition. And I dosed your coffee when you were here earlier. If you weren't a virgin, it would have made you violently ill. Or killed you, but that hardly ever happens."

"You tried to _poison_ me?"

"You've poisoned John like six times."

"Yeah, but it's _me_. And you," he sputtered, "you don't— _poison_ people."

"Sherlock, focus. I need fifty millilitres of blood, give or take, and I can get it out of you the easy way or the hard way because this needs to happen at midnight and I'm not waiting another year. So if you please?"

He tried to stare her down, his eyes narrowed, but she just gave him her very bland, polite, somewhat vacant 'I'm waiting' face. He huffed a sigh and gave in, rolled up his sleeve. "So how long have you been...?"

He had no idea how he was supposed to finish that sentence.

"Born into it. Last of my line, actually—it's matrilineal—which is a pity, but, well, you know about my luck with men," she said conversationally as she prepped his arm for the blood draw.

"How—how did I miss something like this? _Me_?" he ask himself aloud. He still wasn't ruling out some form of altered state on his part, but for now, the improbable was looking like the truth.

"It's not something we can really be open about, for obvious reasons, Y'know, with the burnings and the drownings. And the stonings. And the pressings, and the hangings, and the beheadings."

"But Wicca is mostly accepted and considered a 'legitimate religion'—as far as that goes—these days."

"Pfft, Wicca. 'Oh, I can summon the wind!' The only wind they can summon is from the lentils they had for supper the night before. This is _real_ magic, not the cartoon Order of Thelema toff 'magick' with a 'k' or the sociopathic sex cult that popped up in the States sixty years ago. Which is why we're not supposed to tell men about any of it and especially not let them see the book—"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, glancing up from where he'd idly been flipping through the pages; surely she'd noticed and she hadn't stopped him.

"—because they read one little section and think they understand the answer to life, the universe, and everything, and then they go off spouting gibberish and making it all about them. Crowley did it, LaVey did it, tons of others too, going all the way back."

"But you're telling me."

Molly looked away for a second, colouring faintly. "Because I trust you to keep my secrets, just like you trust me to keep yours," she said softly, sincerely. Then she shifted back to her usual sunny self. "And I'm probably the only person in all of England who can murder you and get away with it."

He steadfastly ignored the tingle that thought gave him.

"So how does this work? Raising the dead," he asked, changing the subject before he said something stupid like _I could help you with that 'last of your line' problem_.

"I combine some reagents, anoint the body, say some words, and hey presto, 'it's alive!'" She ended with a dramatic pantomime a la _Frankenstein_.

Which would make him Igor, he supposed. Wonderful.

"But the physiology, the science behind it, how—"

"No idea. They don't usually stay _un_ dead long enough to run tests, and it's not like I can shuffle a reanimated corpse up to Imaging for a CAT scan."

"So you've done this before."

"A few times..." she hedged.

"Ah," he said. He watched as she set the second vial aside and withdrew the needle; he pressed the cotton wool over the puncture while she fiddled with a piece of tape. It was obvious she didn't do this very often. "What for?"

"Hm?"

"Why do you do it?"

"Practice, mostly. Only get to do it once a year, when the veil is thinnest. And I've been testing the limits of the spell against state of decomp. I raised a skeleton last year, but it fell apart after five minutes. Without any soft tissues, it couldn't really do much of anything, though, so there isn't much practical application for that. Remind me later, I'll send you the video," she said, pouring the blood into a latte mug, then adding some kind of (obviously pre-measured) powder from an envelope.

 _A bit like instant soup_ , he thought giddily. "You take video?"

"I send it out to the rest of the coven. Kind of a humblebrag, but you can only see 'hashtag: love potion success!' so many times before it gets old."

"So you're rubbish at potions," he said flatly.

"They're mostly useless, with modern medicine," she defended. He might have touched a nerve. "Sleeping draught? Sedatives. Cure for dropsy? Diuretics and diagnostic testing. Rickets, scurvy, all kinds of pox—all gone, thanks to medicine. And love potions are just... cheating. What's the point of someone loving you if it isn't real? And it's a bit dodgy besides with, y'know, consent issues."

He tipped his head, agreeing; she probably hadn't tried one on him, then, and he found himself a bit disappointed at that. Best to stuff that down the laundry chute in his Mind Palace with the rest of his feelings.

"Just going to pop off to microwave this," Molly said, holding up the mug. "Don't touch anything until I get back."

"You use a microwave?"

"Can't exactly build a fire in the middle of the floor and hang a cauldron over it, can I? It only needs to boil, doesn't matter how it gets there," she said before disappearing through the doors.

Because he was an adult and he could follow directions, he didn't touch anything. Except the book—grimoire, he supposed—which was just too much to resist. Upon closer inspection, he decided that no, the binding wasn't cow or sheep or any other ruminant; it was more like pigskin.

 _Long pig_ , his brain supplied. _Human_. He was delighted. Inside was a jumble of pages in different hands and different languages, some runes, some Old and Middle English, some he didn't recognize at all; aside from the content, a book like this was a museum piece. He wondered if she used magic to keep it from degrading, then laughed at himself for even having a thought like that. Utterly ridiculous.

Molly returned with the steaming mug, two mismatched oven mitts on her hands.

"If you could just pull back the sheet for me? And then hold open the book on page, um... I don't know, the one right after the full page illustration of the orgy with Satan."

"Is that a thing you actually do? I suppose that explains why you slept with Moriarty."

"I slept with Jim because he was nice and he had a cock like a baby's arm holding an app—" she cleared her throat. "He was nice. And the woodcut is contemporary political satire. The Devil is actually James the First. Huh, James, Jim... whatever. Hold the book open please."

For once, he shut up and did as he was told.

*

"Are they always that chatty?" he asked, hovering as Molly closed the drawer on the doubly-deceased Mrs. Moon.

"Not usually, no," Molly said. "Thank God her tongue finally fell out. I think she had a grudge against every single person and autonomous body in all of England."

"How many cats did you say they found with her?"

"Seventeen, I think? But four were mummified."

"Mm. Pity I hadn't known you could do this years ago. Probably could have saved myself a bit of time dismantling Moriarty's network if I could've just asked him who they were."

"Well, ah, actually, I did. Wasn't really able to get much out of him, though, with the brain damage. He just kept repeating strings of numbers and letters. I, um, took them to your brother—don't worry, I lied about where I got them—and, long story short, they were offshore account numbers, mostly in the Caymans. Redid my kitchen _and_ went on holiday with the finder's fee."

"I suppose that explains why Mycroft stopped complaining about my expense account. I knew it was too good to be true to think he'd finally come around to seeing things my way." Then, a thought struck him. "So what else can you do?"

"Lame a horse, blight your neighbour's field, inflict pin-vomiting and hallucinations, um... snakes for hair, impotence, warts, turning people into rats, frogs, bats... all the traditional stuff."

"Will you show me sometime?"

She smiled at him, bright and genuine. "This is going to be fun," she said.

"Yes, it is," he said, grinning back.

 


	78. The KonMari Method or, Sorry You Had A Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sort-of prompt fill from a tumblr reblog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theleftpill reblogged [this photo](http://theleftpill.tumblr.com/image/166788817937) with the following request: 
> 
> Sherlolly writers consider this a prompt I need a fic with this STAT
> 
> (@sunken-standard are you up for the challenge???)
> 
> and, well, it happened.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, stopping just inside in her bedroom doorway.  The bed was piled high with what looked to be the entire contents of her wardrobe and chest of drawers; he wondered if she’d lost something.  He’d help her find it later; right now he just wanted a nap.  Being tired all the time was the worst part of getting shot, worse than the actual pain and opiate withdrawal.  Honestly, Mary didn’t _have_ to shoot him, he would have covered for her.  John would believe any lie Sherlock told him, up to and including ‘it was aliens.’

Molly jumped at the sound of his voice and turned to scowl at him; even so, he could tell she was happy to see him.  Nice change of pace from John’s moping.

She recovered quickly.  "KonMari,“ she answered simply, tossing another pile from her pyjama drawer onto the bed.

Didn’t ring any bells.  "Is this something I should know, or will I just be deleting it later?”

“It’s to do with tidying, I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions,” she said lightly, scooping up another handful of vaguely-folded pants.  

Her laissez-faire attitude when it came to cupboards, cabinets, drawers, and wardrobes made his brain itch sometimes.  Sure, she had clean, uncluttered horizontal surfaces in her flat, but the distillation of her system of organization was basically, 'haphazardly cram as much rubbish into a space as possible and close the door’ and it set his teeth on edge.  It was the polar opposite of his system and was, therefore, wrong.

She should just let _him_ do it.  He would _enjoy_ doing it.  Every sock neatly rolled and every jumper properly folded; just the thought of it was satisfying.  Soothing, even.

She gave him another annoyed look when he collapsed onto the bed (he loved her bed, it had a rebound like a trampoline and if the ceilings were higher he would use it as such), holding back a grunt when his freshly-healed wound pulled.

“Sounds thrilling,” he said dryly, hooking a pair of her pants with his finger and holding them up to idly inspect them.  

“You’re supposed to pick up every single item and ask yourself, 'does this spark joy?’ and if it doesn’t, you get rid of it,” she explained anyway.

 _Does this spark joy?_ he thought, contemplating the underwear.  Nothing special, just cotton bikinis in a turmeric-yellow colour with cartoon cat’s face on the front, its tongue sticking out and the word 'yum’ underneath.  He preferred her without, anyway.  Not that he thought about that at all, ever, because she was his _friend_ and not some Mind Palace pin-up girl.

“Nope,” he said, flinging the underwear aside.

“Those are my date underwear.  They haven’t sparked joy yet, but hope springs eternal,” she said, dumping the last of her pyjamas on the bed by his knees.

“You wear these on a date.  And you wonder why you’re single.” Probably shouldn’t have said that, he realized, it had only been two months since she’d ended things with whatever-his-name-was (already deleted).  Not that she seemed to be mourning the death of that relationship.

“The medium is the message, and sometimes you need to make a statement.”

“And the statement these make is… I buy pants at Poundland?”

She looked at him like he was a bit dim and he stared back at her, waiting for her to elaborate; the moment stretched on before she gave her head a little shake and looked away.

“You’ll get it eventually,” she said lightly, picking up a pair of sleep shorts and hugging them to her chest.

He grunted and turned over, annoyed he was missing something and bored with her stupid project.  'Sparking joy,’ really?  Either a thing had utility or it didn’t, joy wasn’t a factor.  If joy were a prerequisite to ownership, Mycroft would only own a fork, his umbrella, and the man-Spanx he denied wearing.

“Before you fall asleep, would you mind moving off my bras and socks?”

“I’m batch-processing them for you, I’ll let you know the results at the end of the diagnostic,” he mumbled, already drifting off.  "Just pretend I’m dead and roll me like one of your corpses when you need them.“

*

"So then—and here’s the funny bit, Mr. Holmes—there were no footprints in front of the catflap, even though it was raining!” the client droned on.  Dear God he wanted a cigarette.  He settled for gnawing the dry skin off his bottom lip, anything to appease the oral fixation—

A chain of dominoes began to tumble in his mind and then _oh_. _Ohhhh_.  He finally got the 'statement’ on the front of Molly’s pants that she’d alluded to a week ago, and it had nothing to do with her being a cat lover.  He swallowed rather thickly and surreptitiously crossed his legs.

He wondered how far the secret language of women’s clothing extended; the very idea of a graphic being more than just a social signaller ('I like music!’ 'referential humour only intelligible to my specific subculture/ peer group!’ 'I got a free t-shirt for doing a thing!’) and containing actual hidden messages was earth-shaking.  

“Try checking under the sofa, goodbye,” he said, pulling his laptop from the side table.  Who cared about a missing cat with diamond collar?  He had a new hypothesis to research.

*

In the history of bad days, this one had to be in the top ten for personal worst.  And that included four ODs, being rather suddenly (and violently) evicted from his last flat, jumping off a roof, being tortured by Serbian mobsters, getting shot and technically dying, ripping open his unhealed wound and almost technically dying again, and John and Mary’s wedding.

He’d tripped and fallen down the stairs in front of both John and Mrs. Hudson, got kicked in the shin by a six year old while queuing at the bank only to be recognized as 'Shag-a-lot’ Holmes by the teller (who was married and old enough to be his mother, for fuck’s sake), made a wrong deduction in front of Sally Donovan and didn’t even have a comeback for her snide comment because he was too busy trying to avoid stepping in dog poo, only to walk into a lamppost.  And the icing on the cake was getting splashed by a bus driving through a puddle while waiting for the taxi to Molly’s.

He really just wanted some hot tea and dry clothing, maybe some soup if she had it.  Of course she had soup, she always had soup, she ate more soup than any other person he’d ever met because she felt the need to justify the purchase of a £300 blender.

He let himself in the flat and trudged through the lounge, only to meet her as she was coming down the stairs (probably too much to hope for that it was actually to greet him).  He noticed her shirt immediately, out-of-place as it was for her; pink plush polyester velvet with script embroidery that read 'Sorry you had a bad day/ You can touch my boobs/ if you want.’

How did she know?  He’d only texted her once, and that was to ask how long it would take to bleed out from a screwdriver to the brachial vein, assuming no first aid.  Then again, she was very good at inferring his mood from the smallest of clues, so maybe he’d somehow given it away.  Or Lestrade had sent her video of the lamppost incident.

Going on the hypothesis he’d yet to actually confirm or deny, he took the shirt at face value (pausing to wonder if she was wearing her cat underwear, even if that might be putting the cart before the horse a bit).  Truthfully he was a bit surprised by the offer, though he supposed they’d been moving in that direction for a long time even after the little hiccup with Irene Adler and, now that a suitable mourning period had elapsed since the fiancé was gone, she was ready to get back on the horse.  He was thinking about horses an awful lot and he didn’t know why.  Focus!  Breasts, yes, on offer, two for one, very good.  Completely unambiguous message, right there on her chest.

Conveniently, with the height difference mitigated by her position on the stairs, her breasts were at the perfect height to just bend forward and rest his forehead on her sternum, bringing his hands up to cup them as he pressed them against his cheeks.  Her nipples were like a video game controller under his thumbs, and he finally understood the allure of X-box.  All the universe’s knowledge was revealed to him and choruses of angels were singing somewhere, he was sure.

Instead of sighing in pleasure and wrapping her arms around him in a warm, comforting embrace, she went very still.

Finding her balance, maybe; stairs could be precarious (he had the bruises from that very morning to attest to that).  He stilled, waited, then slowly pulled his head back and straightened to look at her.

The look on her face was not one of benevolent welcome.  Her eyes were closed and her jaw was set, the color in her cheeks less 'maidenly blush’ and more 'cartoon steam whistle.’

 _I’ve made a huge mistake_.  How to tactfully extract himself…. Probably should stop playing DOOM with her nipples.   _Hahahaha, DOOM, how appropriate_ , he thought a touch hysterically.

“Did your day just get better?” she gritted out.

“Well it’s not getting any worse,” he answered, trying for glib and charming and failing miserably.  It had, in fact, gotten worse.

“If you don’t move your hands, it’s going to,” she said calmly.

He cleared his throat.  "Right.“  He finally peeled his hands off her and let them drop to his sides.  "I believe there’s been a slight misunderstanding.”

“Ya think?”

He scowled at her, going on the defensive.  All the signs were there, _her tits were literally labelled with express permission to play with them_.

“I thought it was some kind of— social signalling— non-verbal communication— thing,” he sputtered.  "Like your oral sex pants.“

"How long did it take you make that connection?” she smirked, rather unkindly.

“That’s not important.  That—” he pointed to her shirt “—is false advertising.  Worse, it’s entrapment.  I did have a bad day—thanks for asking—and what was I supposed to think?  I was just taking you up on the clearly stated offer of the platonic comfort of your bosom.”

“Totally platonic motorboating.”

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why do you even _own_ a shirt like that?” he wailed to the heavens.  Well, really, just narrowed his eyes at her and bent his knees a bit, but inside he was wailing.

“My sister,” she snarled.  "Joke engagement present.  'Oh, hee-hee, I’ve got one just like it and hubby loves it after a hard day at work, hee-hee!’  She thinks she’s so funny because she looks like she’s always got two roast chickens stuffed under jumper and I’ve got these… _sparrow eggs_ —"

“Bit bigger than a sparrow egg,” he interjected, trying to make her feel better.  "Probably about the size of a duck egg at the fullest part.“

"A duck egg.”

“Maybe small goose by total volume?” he tried.  

“Do you have some kind of mental breast-size-to-egg correlation chart?” she snapped.

“Doesn’t everyone?” he countered.  He didn’t, but when in doubt, act superior.  Then, he remembered something.  "If you’re insecure about the size of your breasts—I say 'if,’ as though it were a hypothetical—why would you keep the shirt?  How did that survive the purge?“

Ha! The upper hand was his.

"I liked the way it felt.  It’s very comfortable.  And apparently I’m not the only one it 'sparked joy’ for.”

He fought the instinct to look down and check that his trousers weren’t tented.  "It’s very soft,“ he conceded haughtily.

There was an uncomfortably long pause, then—

"Do you, ah, actually need a hug?” Molly asked.

“Maybe,” he sniffed, going for chilly but ending up a bit on the pathetic/ over-eager side.

Molly rolled her eyes and opened her arms.  "Come on, then.  No twiddling this time, though.“


	79. "I think I like this holiday."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a different tumblr prompt meme, this one being Halloween sentence starters: http://sunken-standard.tumblr.com/post/166406032335/muses-first-halloween-sentence-starters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by an anon: 'I think I like this holiday.'

"So who are we raising this year?" Sherlock asked, breezing into the morgue. She wanted him there a bit early, probably for help with the set-up this time.

"You'll see," she said, a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes. "Just need to do a bit of prep work and then we'll grab the bags and be off."

*

Not much had changed in the year since she'd revealed who she was, though he wasn't sure why he'd expected it to, really. Experiments in the lab had shifted to experiments in her flat or sometimes road trips out into the country, sometimes he asked her for a bit of a shortcut with her scrying mirror for an urgent case, and he'd saved a few hundred pounds on dry cleaning. Turned out she wasn't as habitually tidy as he once thought; her entire flat was ensorcelled to keep itself clean and she had spells for _everything_. He understood why they'd tried to end witchcraft all those centuries ago; the incantation she used to unclog a drain could dissolve a human being into a puddle of goo in a matter of minutes. If Mycroft got wind of it, she'd probably be locked away in some secret island prison and weaponized as-needed.

And Toby, who wasn't just a plain old house cat, but actually her familiar... Sherlock still didn't trust him. He knew entirely too much and he was too smug about it. At least his silence was easily bought with a tin of sardines or a sprig of fresh catnip. For now.

Sherlock's virginity had become his biggest asset, as far as Molly was concerned. Blood of a virgin, hair of a virgin, tooth of a virgin (and oh how unpleasant that one had been, but she had a spell to re-grow it so it wasn't _that_ bad, considering), once he even had to hold a raven's egg in his mouth from sunset to sunrise; he was a rare and valuable commodity. Between that fact and the cat, he was sure never to get a leg over. Not that that was important, exactly, he had Molly all to himself anyway because he made sure to keep her busy with experiments and bringing her in on more of his cases and the occasional celebratory outing that was certainly not a date. Even so, a bit more would be nice.

*

"Catherine Eddowes."

"Nope."

"Mary Jane Kelly."

"No, none of the Ripper victims, they'd be too decomposed. They need soft tissue, remember?"

"Not Robert Pakington, then," he muttered, racking his brain for who the surprise guest of honour could be.

"I don't even know who that is."

"First murder ever committed in London with a handgun. 1536."

"Ah. I'll give you a hint—"

"No hints! I want to figure it out on my own."

"More data, then. We're not grave-robbing."

"Well that's disappointing," he huffed. Not that he was looking forward to the shovelling, but he did enjoy flouting laws _and_ decency.

"Maybe some other time," she said, sounding like someone's Mum.

So, soft tissue, but not grave-robbing. Probably not a corpse in another morgue, she'd just have them sent to Bart's (she could get her hands on anything she wanted and didn't even need magic to do it). More decomposed than last year's cat-lady because she was working backwards from fresh after the skeleton debacle, so dead more than four months before being discovered, assuming no extenuating circumstances like exposure to the elements or submersion...

Either she'd been keeping a corpse on ice in a Lok'nStore somewhere or it was a preserved specimen.

"One of Gunther von Hagen's bodies?"

"No, but _that_ would be interesting. I wonder if it would even work on a plasticized body, since they're mostly inorganic. We'll have to remember that for next year," she said.

Her use of 'we' in conjunction with 'next year' made him warm inside. But back to the matter at hand—

"Jeremy Bentham?"

"No, but warm. Ish. Right train, wrong station."

"A mummy?"

"You'll see."

"So it is a mummy."

She mimed zipping her lips and throwing away the key.

*

"I knew it was a mummy," he whispered as Molly's friend led them through the bowels of the British Museum to one of the conservation rooms. She squeezed his hand hard enough for the bones to grind together, probably afraid that he'd blow their cover. _Him_ , of all people. Who did she think he was?

As soon as they were in the room with the mummy, the alarm system went off (Molly's doing).

"Bollocks," Molly's friend (whose name he hadn't caught, but was no threat at all because 1. gay, 2. married, 3. under 30) swore. "Must have triggered a sensor somehow, it happens sometimes, be back in a tick."

The friend scurried off and Molly dropped Sherlock's hand with the one-word order of "Candles," while she set her bag on the nearest table and unpacked the grimoire and Thermos flask of blood-herb 'soup.'

"Sheet?" she prompted over her shoulder, pouring the blood mixture into the cap of the flask.

He leaned over the mummy and pulled back the sheet and stared in disbelief for a moment before finally finding his voice.

"Molly, this is _Lindow Man_. One of the most significant artefacts in all of British history, not some ten-a-penny Egyptian mummy! What if something goes wrong?" He watched in horror as she dipped her fingers in the blood and smeared three lines on the corpse's forehead.

"Nothing's going to go wrong, I've done this before. You've _seen_ me do this before. Unless there's something you're not telling me about the potential reactivity of one of my reagents—?"

"I'm still—" he cleared his throat and rolled his wrist in a vague gesture because he wasn't going to say _a virgin_ out loud "—if that's what you mean."

"Then we have nothing to worry about. And I thought we'd have a better chance communicating with this one, unless you can speak ancient Egyptian?"

"I have a working knowledge of ancient Greek, the _lingua franca_ of the time," he sniffed, annoyed with her tone.

"And I have a working knowledge of all the Brittonic and Goidelic languages, _and_ Latin, thanks to this," she countered, holding up the grimoire. "Now, if we could get on with it? On a bit of a schedule."

He huffed and stepped back; it wasn't that he didn't trust her abilities—he did, more than anyone (not that he knew any other witches, but that was beside the point)—he was just very aware of the consequences should something not go to plan.

Molly graced him with a half-smile that was the equivalent of a sarcastic _thank you_ and continued anointing the body, then grabbed her book, realizing too late that she'd forgotten to wipe the blood off her hands. She scrunched her nose in annoyance and his stomach did that funny, flippy thing it always did when she was being utterly adorable. She read the incantation and the blood glowed gold for a moment before disappearing into the corpse's skin; nothing happened for a moment, and then the toes on the severed right leg began to wiggle.

The head slowly turned from its bent position to face forward, crackling like old parchment, its mouth working to form words. Sherlock prided himself on his ration and subsequent immunity to fear; a chill ran down his spine from the sight and he fought the urge to grab Molly and _run_. Molly, however, seemed utterly delighted and leaned closer to try to catch what Lindow Man (!!!!) might be saying.

He watched as her brow wrinkled and her expression morphed into consternation. She stepped back from the body and looked up at him.

"I'm pretty sure he just called me a cow's vagina and told me I should be strangled by my own hair," she said.

"Going to go out on a limb and say his ritualistic murder was carried out by your forebears," Sherlock said dryly, watching the corpse try to prop himself up on what was left of his arms.

It was then, of course, that Molly's friend re-entered the room, muttering something about needing keys; they hadn't planned for _that_ contingency.

She looked between the body, Sherlock, and the door in a panic; the friend was supposed to be gone for ten minutes at least, long enough for Molly to cast an amnesia/ re-written memory spell. Sherlock triangulated and worked out angles in his head and moved two steps to his right, pulling Molly along with him as he wrapped his arms around her and dipped her backwards against the table the body was on. Molly flailed, off-balance and caught off-guard, then flung her arms around him in a bid to stay upright and just out of reach of the angry, wheezing corpse behind them.

"Sorry," he murmured before leaning in to kiss her, committing fully to selling it despite the friend not being able to see their faces from that angle.

Much to his surprise, she kissed back, and rather ardently at that.

"Whoa, sorry! I, ah, I didn't—I mean, you said it was your anniversary but I—yeah, I'll just be out in the hall for a few minutes," the friend said, footsteps already retreating.

He lingered for just a second longer before breaking the kiss and pulling Molly upright. "How long until the spell wears off?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know, it could be minutes, it could be hours!"

"Is there some kind of counter-spell or something to break it, like snuffing the candles or—"

"Blood," she interrupted. "The blood is connected to you and the purity of your life force is what's animating the body. If your blood is corrupted, the spell breaks."

"So you mean...?" Surely she couldn't.

"Do you have a better plan?" she snapped.

He couldn't fathom there being a more perfect plan ever conceived of in the history of plans. "Virgin sacrifice it is," he said lightly, dipping back down to kiss her again before she could say anything else.

*

"So much for grave robbing or plasticized bodies next year," he said, breaking the awkward silence in the cab on the way back to—where were they going? Bart's? Her flat? His flat? He hadn't been paying attention when she'd given the cabby the address. They hadn't spoken a word to each other since they'd broken the spell.

Really, he'd rather forget those three minutes of mortification, being watched by a two thousand year old corpse no less; he wondered if she'd do him a favour and alter his memories.

"It's alright, I'll just go back to the universities again. Might be able to weasel my way into an anime club or a LARP group. Or, I mean, there are, ah, other... spells... rituals, really... we could do, if you still want to have um, the same level of participation with, ah... fluids."

"Fluids."

"Nevermind, forget I said that."

"I believe we can work something out," he said tentatively. Then the full impact of what she was (probably) offering hit him. He couldn't help but grin. "I think I like this holiday."

 


	80. Photo prompt #1, Mermaids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I [opened up my submissions for picture prompts on tumblr a while ago](https://sunken-standard.tumblr.com/post/177680681255/so-i-want-to-try-writing-again-and-i-have-an-idea) (closed now, sorry), and this was one of the results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Submitted by marrceh; [A picture of two mermaids swimming, taken looking up from below](https://sunken-standard.tumblr.com/post/177720254170/picture-prompt-1)
> 
> Not beta'd or britpicked.

“You know, I don’t know what I expected when you said it was for a case,” Molly said, holding up the silicone mermaid tail.  

“I _did_ tell you to pack a swimsuit,” Sherlock said, as though it should have been obvious.

Really, she should have twigged that something was odd when he asked her to go with him to the Isles of Scilly and pack for a beach holiday.  It was entirely too normal, she should have known, but hope sprang eternal, she supposed.  Would have been weirder if he’d asked her to pose as his wife-girlfriend-mistress and do touristy things, anyway.

He removed a plastic dropcloth from the suitcase and proceeded to spread it over the floor; she had a feeling she wasn’t going to like where this was going.  The feeling intensified when he produced a bottle of baby oil.   

She should start blogging, like John. As if anyone would ever believe her.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to get changed?  The boat’s scheduled for noon.”

“That’s three hours from now.”

“According to YouTube, there’s a bit of a learning curve to putting the tails on, and we do only have an hour on the water,” he said, untying his dressing gown.  "I’d rather not unnecessarily waste time getting ‘suited up.’“  She could hear the air quotes as he widened his eyes and popped the p.

He let the dressing gown drop to the floor and _oh God it would have been less mortifying if he’d just been naked under there_ —he wore a tiny pair of purple trunks, if they could be called that.  Spandex, covering just a bit more than a banana hammock.  Fish scale print, even.

He grabbed the baby oil and poured a generous amount into his hand, then proceeded to rub down his (oh God, _shaved_ ) legs.

Asking the obvious would make her look stupid, but—

“What are you doing?”

“Unlike a neoprene wetsuit, the manufacturer recommends oil-based lubricants.  I’m applying said lubricant,” he said chirpily.  "Now if you would be so kind as to hand me both a hand towel and my tail, which is in the very large suitcase from which I removed the tail you’re currently holding…?“

*

Molly had fantasized many times about an hour of hot, sweaty, well-lubed grunting and straining with Sherlock; she would laugh if she had the energy for it.  

She flopped back on the plastic sheeting, panting.  "Why didn’t you just buy the ones with zippers?”

Over the course of the last half-hour she’d learned more about merfolk culture than she would ever conceivably need or want to know.  The case itself wasn’t very special, run-of-the-mill for Sherlock; a murder—ruled death by misadventure, simple enough drowning, she’d seen the postmortem report and there were no red flags—two people connect on a special interest forum, fall in love, etc, and then one ends up dead after a photo shoot whilst away on a dirty weekend.  The only reason it rated over a three was the mermaid thing.  It had been a slow couple of weeks anyway.  

“I didn’t buy them, I borrowed them.”

“So I’m wearing the fish version of someone’s fursona right now.”  She very much wanted a shower.

“According to the internet, Mers are not Furs, though there are fetish groups, but there are fetish groups for literally everything.  Not quite sure of the mechanics of it,” he said, looking at his lap, then hers.

“Ask Guillermo del Toro,” she said, mostly to herself.

He gave her a questioning look, which instantly morphed into _I don’t want to know/ moving on_.  He pulled his laptop down from the bed and opened the browser.  "Swim lessons?“ he asked, neatly changing the subject.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was going to be more to this but it got rambley and less funny as it progressed. I made the fishman-fucking joke I wanted to make, so I just cut and run.


	81. Photo Prompt #2, Emerald Pendant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I [opened up my submissions for picture prompts on tumblr a while ago](https://sunken-standard.tumblr.com/post/177680681255/so-i-want-to-try-writing-again-and-i-have-an-idea) (closed now, sorry), and this was the result.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt submitted by Mizjoely: [A teardrop cut emerald surrounded by pave diamonds in a silver metal setting, hanging from a chain](https://sunken-standard.tumblr.com/post/177761364820/for-the-picture-ask-sherlolly-of-course)

“That box is for the Yard,” Molly said, watching from the corner of her eye as Sherlock snooped. The box wasn’t for one of _his_ cases; he wasn’t even in the lab _for_ a case, as far as she knew.  Didn’t really know why he was there, actually.

“Really, this one, marked ‘Evidence’?”  He pointed to the box, face kind of blank and innocent with a hint of confusion.  Smartarse.

“Yes, and I’ll thank you not to break the se—” the final consonant died on her tongue before she finished her sentence anyway, annoyed.  "—al, as I’ve already submitted the paperwork.  That’s alright though, I’ll just take another twenty minutes out of my day to do the forms over.“

“It’s going to sit in storage for months anyway, by the time anyone notices anything amiss no one will care anyway.  Won’t even go to trial, you would have already texted me if it were a good murder,” he said, carefully slitting the last piece of tape.

He began to rifle, deducing as he went. “Male, obviously, middle-aged, middle management—telecommunications sector, at a guess—bit on the short side or just had T-Rex arms, do you have his trousers?”

“Wasn’t wearing them when he came in, I think the EMT said—”

“Shh!  I don’t want to know any details.  Need to get back to my fighting weight, brain’s getting flabby from the tedium of lost family heirlooms and corporate espionage.”

“You’re still the last hope for the hopeless,” she offered.  

“Last hope for the hapless.  But school fees don’t pay themselves and, at the current rate of inflation, St. Paul’s will be over ten thousand a term by 2027. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,” he said, holding an evidence bag up to the light.

“Rosebuds.  Because Rosie.  I see what you did there.”  

The corner of his mouth twitched just the slightest bit as he continued his deductions.  "Ceramic-glass composite ‘emerald,’ 2.5ish carats at a guess and another quarter carat of mid-grade rhinestones, setting’s plated, rhodium, not white gold; it’s not May so not a birthday present, anniversary likely; marriage fizzled long ago but not ready for a divorce,“ he said, rummaging the decedent’s belongings one-handed while still holding up the bag.  "Must be a box of some kind here, had to have had it in his hand, no trousers no pockets…”

“Nope,” Molly said, smirking a bit to herself.  It wasn’t as though she loved to see him get something wrong, but every once in a while it was good to see him reminded he wasn’t omniscient.  And he’d enjoy this one, once he finally got it.

“Wearing it?  Wouldn’t expect that, wife’s obviously still alive, wedding ring is too old for this to be a second marriage and his fashion sense is entirely too pedestrian to have any interest in cross-dressing, closeted or otherwise,” he frowned, that weird, off-center crease forming between his eyebrows.

“Not wearing it.”  It was hard to keep the amusement out of her voice.

“Not wea—oh.”  The penny dropped.  "Wasn’t expecting that.“

"Neither was he, probably.” Nor had she been; all she’d known before starting the postmortem was that it was a suspected heart attack as a result of a domestic dispute.

“That explains the lack of trousers.  I suppose divorce was closer than I first reckoned.  The wife wasn’t born in May, but _someone_ was.”  

“Probably someone she knew.  It was really far up there.”

He made a little noise of agreement and nodded, his lips turned down at the corners in a way that said _fair assessment, I concur_.  There was a beat of silence as they both reflected on the complicated nature of human relationships.  And the logistics of shoving a fake emerald pendant up someone’s arse, chain and all.

Then, replacing the bag in the box, he said, “Really can’t blame her, it couldn’t have cost more than £25.  Generally men overcompensate and overspend on jewelry when feeling guilty.  With what I expect his income to be, should have been a decent quality synthetic and real gold at the very least.”

“You’re such a romantic,” Molly said flatly.


	82. Photo Prompt #3, S3 Promo Pic of Molly and Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I [opened up my submissions for picture prompts on tumblr a while ago](https://sunken-standard.tumblr.com/post/177680681255/so-i-want-to-try-writing-again-and-i-have-an-idea) (closed now, sorry), and this was the result.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt submitted by renniejoy: [One of the promo pics from S3; Molly and Sherlock standing together, her with an enigmatic smile and him looking serious as a heart attack](https://sunken-standard.tumblr.com/post/177844382385/photo-prompt-3)

“Oh, Molly sent me an email,” Mary said, looking down at her phone.  She was glad for the distraction—Sherlock had come round, first time in the flat and it was a bit uncomfortable.  They were strangers, more or less, and John was still getting used to Sherlock again.   Or rather, getting used to himself in his role as Sherlock’s sidekick again.  And Sherlock really wasn’t good with normal human social interactions, though he was trying.  Bless.  Five minutes of tea and small talk and he was ready to break a sweat from the strain of it.   

From the corner of her eye she saw Sherlock pull his own phone from his jacket pocket and check it with a frown; interesting.  Did he expect Molly to CC him on her emails?

Mary opened it; she and Molly had made vague plans for a lunch and bridal shopping at the engagement/ welcome-home-from-being-dead-Sherlock drinks-do, might as well see what the follow-up was.  The attached pictures were a bit odd, but she supposed Molly was just one of those people that felt like they needed an excuse to make contact.  She seemed the type to take a cake to new neighbors on moving day.

Mrs. Hudson had taken the pictures with her decade-old digital camera, herding people together like someone’s Mum at Christmas.  It was nice, the kind of thing Mary always wanted. She already felt like part of a family.  She scrolled through them, probably what Molly thought were the best of a bad lot since there weren’t many and what there were were poorly framed, blurry, the flash too bright.  John and her together, John and Sherlock, John and Greg, John-Sherlock-Greg, Sherlock and Greg with half of her face in the frame, Sherlock and Molly.

That one caught her eye.  Looked a bit like Molly had Sherlock’s wedding tackle in a vice grip just out of frame.  Despite what John thought, Mary had a feeling that was a fairly accurate summation of Molly and Sherlock’s relationship.  

John had told her bits and pieces about Sherlock and women, how he was blind to or completely unphased by their advances (men too; the whole ‘was he gay?’ thing was a different conversation, though), the thing with the dominatrix and how he treated Molly like a lab assistant or a little sister.  Mary had wondered, but then when it came out that Molly had helped him fake his death (and then days after his return he’d taken her out to solve crimes), she was fairly certain there was something else going on that John hadn’t picked up on.

Sherlock had kept his distance from Molly at the party, but Mary had seen the glances going both ways.  A moment of silent communication when Mary pressed Molly for details about faking the suicide, _should I tell her?_ from Molly and _yes, that’s fine, you can violate the Official Secrets Act for Mary because she’s family_ from Sherlock.  A few instances of finishing each other’s sentences while in group conversation.  The way Sherlock kept looking at Tom and the tight smiles when he was caught.  Bittersweet, really.

She wondered if they’d slept together. Sherlock had stayed at Molly’s for a few days right after his faked suicide, emotions had to have been running high, only natural for something to happen.  Her instincts said maybe, at the very least a kiss.  

She could help him with it.  Molly seemed happy, but it still wouldn’t take much to find the right thread to cut to unravel the engagement.  With a little big-sister lifecoaching, Sherlock would be ready to step right in.

_God, imagine the pillow talk_ , she thought to herself, snorting.  Lividity patterns and lab equipment specs.

“What’s so funny?” John asked, coming to hover over her shoulder, drink in hand.

“Just remembering something someone said at the party.  Molly sent pictures.”

At the mention of his would-be girlfriend, Sherlock perked up.  "I didn’t get pictures.“

"What would you do with pictures?” John asked, his face a portrait of cynicism.

“I might need them if someone ever goes missing,” Sherlock said, pulling the reply out of his arse.

“When have you ever—”

She tuned them out as they dissolved into passive-aggression disguised as good-natured bickering; no wonder so many people thought they were a couple.  Even she was half expecting to look over during a lull in the banter and find them snogging like teenagers.  That, or one of them knocked out cold by the other.  She wondered what she had in the freezer to use as an ice pack, just in case.

So, should she help Sherlock?  Sow some seeds of doubt while at lunch with Molly and make herself into the benevolent, 'follow your dreams!’ friend?  She quite liked the both of them.

Too much, maybe; sometimes she forgot who she was, her generous impulses got the better of her and she got sloppy and complacent.  Even if she was safe now, that didn’t mean she could afford to be stupid.

Molly was a potential asset.  Her position in the morgue could come in handy, should Mary ever have to kill someone or take on another identity.  And she had high-level medical training—surgical skills—and access to medical supplies. Mary didn’t want to risk losing that in the future, if things turned sour between Molly and Sherlock.

And there was John to think about.  He was already a different person now that Sherlock was back and had almost got him burned to death _and_ blown up.  She’d only known decaf John, but now that she’d seen him full strength, she didn’t want him to go back.  If Sherlock’s time were taken up by a girlfriend, that would mean less cases, less chance for John to walk the battlefield again, which he needed.  And Molly might make Sherlock see his own mortality, make him curb his worst impulses, which would translate into less danger all around.

No, best to let the status remain quo. She’d keep out of it, mostly.  Or reinforce Molly’s engagement through subtle social pressure.  Really lay it on thick how great it was to have a friend getting married too, girl talk girl talk, John’s a peach but he just doesn’t understand the wedding planning like another woman; bosom buddies.

Really was a shame, they looked good together, in a swotty kind of way.

She forwarded the email to Sherlock and set her phone back on the side table.  At least he’d have a picture, even if he wouldn’t get the girl.

 


	83. Photo Prompt #4, 3 Gifs With Ducklings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I [opened up my submissions for picture prompts on tumblr a while ago](https://sunken-standard.tumblr.com/post/177680681255/so-i-want-to-try-writing-again-and-i-have-an-idea) (closed now, sorry), and this was the result.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt submitted by bkst-tutu1b: [3 animated gifs, with ducklings as the cohesive theme.](https://sunken-standard.tumblr.com/post/179476145450/bkst-tutu1b-sunken-standard-so-i-want-to-try)

Molly paused in front of her bathroom, the dull echo of someone splashing in the bathtub audible through the door.  No help for it, though, when nature calls it hollers and that last cup of canteen coffee did it to her every time. “Sherlock, are you decent?  It’s just, I need a wee and—wow,” she said, stopping short just inside.

Sherlock knelt in front of her tub, shirtsleeves rolled up and wearing one of the green polyethylene aprons from work.  And—  "That’s a capybara.“

At least it wasn’t £8000 worth of fake fannies on the verge of gaining sentience.

"Yes.”

“Where—?”

“Client.  Arrangements are being made for her transportation to her new home in Colchester.  Until then—”

“And the ducks?” she asked over him, as the ‘until then’ was pretty evident.

“Also going to Colchester. They’ve imprinted and can’t be separated.”

“Of course.  So why—”

“Mrs. Hudson draws the line at animals in the flat.”

“Right.”  Should have seen that one coming.  The details didn’t matter right then, anyway. “Really need that wee, so if you'd—”  She gestured to the door.

“Just go about your business, I don’t mind,” he said, waving her off.  He leaned over and splashed behind one of the ducklings, herding it toward the others huddled on the capybara’s back.

“ _I_ mind,” she said.

“What would you have done if I’d been in the bath?  You obviously wouldn’t have waited for me to get out, dried, and dressed, seeing as you just bulled your way in like a Blue Meanie raiding a student commune.  People say _I_ have no manners,” he said, addressing the capybara for the last bit while giving it a thorough chin-scratch.

“I—wh—?  What _decade_ are you from?”  She couldn’t help picturing herself, baton raised and a tit on her head, blowing a whistle that could barely be seen under the massive 70s 'free mustache rides’ pushbroom.  Hassling Sherlock, who would have long hair and a Jesus beard, dressed in a batik Nehru shirt and grotty flares.  And, well, maybe she _had_ watched too much telly as child.  But apparently so had he.

Sherlock ignored her in favor of mushing his lips into a weird shape like someone’s great aunt Edna going in for her 'you’ve got so big!’ Christmas kiss and making little clicking noises with his tongue, which the capybara echoed happily.

“Sounds like a ray gun.  Or a bridge cable that’s about to break, like in a film,” she remarked, momentarily enthralled by its siren song.

“I thought you needed a wee,” Sherlock reminded.  

 _Git_.  "I thought you were leaving.“

"Can’t leave babies in the bath unsupervised,” Sherlock said, using a finger to rotate one of the ducklings in a slow circle.

“They are ducks, Sherlock, they won’t drown,” she said crisply.

“I’m not going to listen, if that’s what you’re worried about.  Well, not intentionally, undoubtedly I’ll hear whatever comes out but, unlike Havelock Ellis, I won’t enjoy it.”

“Well that’s reassuring,” she grumbled.  

She was past the point of arguing anyway, and well, needs must when the devil drives, as Sherlock was fond of saying (when he was being all dramatic and strangely Victorian; it really was like he channeled dead crazy people sometimes).  Everyone did it, nothing to be ashamed of, it wouldn’t get weird unless she made it weird.  Which, with her track record, was pretty much an inevitability.  

Except it wasn’t, it was fine, they even managed to _not_ carry on some kind of awkward conversation for the entire time and Sherlock restrained himself from commenting on the force or duration of her urination.  And for her part, she managed not to make any embarrassing noises of relief that could be alarming to him out of context (or maybe even in context, who knew?).

“So what do they eat, anyway?” she asked, watching Sherlock in the mirror as she washed her hands.

He scooped another duck out of the water and placed it on a towel next to the tub.  "Grass, mostly. Some vegetables and fruits, though best kept in moderation,“ he answered.  "And before you ask, no, I’m not going to send you out shopping, it’s already taken care of.”

“Does it have like a kennel, or a bed, or…?”

“Or.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. “Or.”

“Might want to stay out of the spare room for now,” Sherlock grunted, struggling the capybara over the lip of the bathtub.

Oh lovely.

Of course the second the overgrown guinea pig’s feet hit the floor it was off like a shot, out the door and down the hall, leaving a wet mess behind it.  At least it hadn’t shaken like a dog, she thought, sprinting after, Sherlock on her heels, followed by nine peeping ducklings.

Apparently it knew where its bed was; it turned left into the spare room.  And buried itself in a massive hayrick in the centre of the floor where the bed had been.

 _Murder_ , she thought cheerfully, scenes of throttling Sherlock dancing in her head like sugarplums.

“I put down a dust sheet,” he said as a preemptive defence when he saw the look on her face.

The capybara stuck its head out of the pile, looking completely content and relaxed as it chewed a clump of hay.  

A noise from the corner by the door diverted her attention.  "Is that—"

“Did you sustain a head injury on your way home from work?  I know nursery was centuries ago, but even Rosie could name that one.”

She tore her gaze away from the tiny ginger kitten huddled in the corner long enough to scowl at him.  "Am I going to find a half-built ark in my back garden if I look out the window?“

"Of course not, this window overlooks the street,” he deadpanned.  "And no, before you ask, there aren’t any more animals in the flat awaiting adoption. That _I_ brought in, at least.  Can’t rule out the catflap as a point of ingress for any number of things.“

The ducklings descended on the kitten, backing it into the corner.  She couldn’t help but laugh; it looked like a scene from a zombie film.  Night of the Living Ducks.

"Sorry, you can’t keep it. Already promised to the client’s stepson.”

“But I already had it named. Tobe, with an 'e’ this time, like the director.  Tobe Hooper.  Toby 2: The Hoopening.”

He looked at her askance, narrowing his eyes.

“I’ll just get dinner started, then,” she said, changing the subject.  What else was there, really?  Just another day in the life with Sherlock Holmes.  "Crack the window to let in some fresh air.  I don’t want the flat to smell like a petting zoo.“

*

"Just going to go check on the children,” Sherlock said, putting his plate in the sink.  Too much to hope he’d help with the washing up, but at least he helped clear the table.  If only he’d do the same in his own flat.  Or not, Mrs. Hudson was getting on in years and the shock might do her in.

She began to put the leftovers away, not thinking about much of anything, until she heard Sherlock shouting (presumably into his phone) about an emergency at Molly’s, come quickly.  She raced upstairs, a million scenarios playing through her mind that included him finally setting fire to the flat, digital amputation with fountains of blood a la Monty Python, or a potential hostage situation involving the Latvian Mafia; instead she found him in the spare room leaning half out the window, keeping up a steady stream of platitudes.

“No, no, don’t do it, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you, I know it seems bleak, and yes, existence really is terribly tiring most of the time, so of course I understand, but I’ve been where you are trust me, there are much easier ways to go, so why don’t we all just come back inside where it’s warm and we’ll talk about this.  Don’t you want to see your mother again?  She’s inside and she’s got some yummy kale to share with you—”

She leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder to look out, already having a good idea of what she’d see on the little roof that overhung her front step.  Yep, the ducks had somehow managed to climb out the open window.  Following the kitten, maybe, who was sat on the windowsill, smugly licking its paw.  

“You called Greg for this?” she asked.  "Why don’t you use those giant sloth hands and just scoop them up?“

"Am I in the wrong house?  Did I stumble into Anderson’s?  Thank you for your insight Molly, I never would have thought of simply picking them up,” he said sarcastically.  "Every time I reach for them they run to the edge.  I don’t want to drive them over.“

No, he’d rather just drive _her_ over.  "I have a ladder, you know.  Or maybe we could use a net. The little girl next door has one, I bought it for her for her birthday.”

“The one that’s still in nappies?”

“It’s never too early to foster an interest in science.”

Sherlock gave her a look that would say _I will marry you and give you my pale and dramatic babies_ on anyone else’s face; knowing him it was probably just indigestion.

While waiting for Greg to arrive (which was still ridiculous, but she wasn’t going to be the one bearing the shame of the false alarm and, well, maybe he had some kind of special police training for that sort of thing), Molly tried everything she could think of to lure the ducks back inside.  She picked the kitten up and hopped him across the windowsill, hoping they followed it again; she made every kind of noise she could think of, clicks and clucks and coos, nudging Sherlock in the ribs until he did it too because maybe they liked a deeper voice (and because she wasn’t going to be the only one acting like a loon); she dangled strips of kale and a carrot and made a trail with a handful of frozen peas like Wile E. Coyote trying to trap the Roadrunner; she even struggled the capybara over to the window hoping they would run to Mummy.

Finally Greg’s car pulled up to the kerb.  He hadn’t even made it to her front door when one of the ducklings walked up to the very edge of the roof, shook its tail, bobbed once in preparation, and proceeded to dive.  She and Sherlock surged forward at the same time, shoulders knocking as they leaned out the window with a tandem “Oh, no!”

It was only thanks to Greg’s footballer reflexes that the baby didn’t end up a splat on the pavement; he looked down at the duckling in his hands, slightly bewildered, before looking up at the window.

“This is the emergency?” he asked in disbelief.

The other ducklings had formed an orderly queue; before Molly or Sherlock could answer, the duckling at the front of the line prepared to jump.

Greg saw it and, fast as lightning, set the first on the ground, spinning with this hands open and intercepting the second tiny ball of fluff before it ended up _Canard à la presse_.  "C'mon then chaps, just like the cricket,“ he said, already preparing for the next duckling.

It all went quickly from there; the ducks made it down safely and were whisked inside, the window closed and latched, and Greg installed at her breakfast bar with a cup of coffee while he got the explanation.  He was more amused with the situation than anything, relieved it wasn’t a crime scene after all.

*

"I don’t have sloth hands,” Sherlock said, eyes on his mobile.  He was in Gargoyle Pose #4, texting variant—his knees were drawn up under the blankets, arms wrapped around his legs and phone held in front of him.

“You do.  I’m surprised I haven’t come home from work to find you’ve installed a bar over the bed to hang from when you sleep,” she said lightly, not looking up from her book.

“I don’t sleep here that often,” he defended.

“You sleep here more than my _fiancé_ , who I was _actually going to marry_ , ever did.”

“Which says less about my imposition on your hospitality than it does about the health of that relationship,” he said airily.  

There wasn’t a lot she could say to that; she couldn’t exactly tell Sherlock that he was the driving force behind the break-up, now could she?

“And _your_ hands look like a lemur’s,” he added childishly.

She immediately got an image in her head.  "So if we had a baby it would be a Slow Loris,“ she said.

His fingers flew over his phone; the corner of his mouth pulled into one of his amused little smirks.

"Don’t be silly, Loris is a terrible name.  And calling your own child 'slow,’” he tsk’d.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is vaguely in the same 'verse as chapters 54 and 67, which needs a name now.
> 
> Also, according to [Urban Dictionary](https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Slow%20Loris), "Slow Loris" is also a sex position. Don't think it'll make the cut for the Girlfriend series, but it would be great in a crackfic.


End file.
